


Paint it Black

by dragonnan



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Brain Surgery, Episode: s04e09 Shawn Takes a Shot In the Dark, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Violence, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, episode AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25955434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: "I want you to imagine a bullet coming from that gun, penetrating your skin, and lodging in your brain.  You know how easy that would be for me?"But Shawn doesn't have to imagine it... because he's about to experience it.2013 Awards: Most Wanted WIP, How Many Hats, Boo Boo Award
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	1. A Left Turn Through Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Story Notes:
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

_____________________________________________________________________________

“We're this close to the money and you're screwing it up! We don't need this distraction. Not now. I say we just shoot him in the head and dump the body and get on with this.”

Shawn tensed, feeling the blood that wasn't escaping from his shoulder begin to pool in his feet. He licked his lips and clenched his fingers.

“Uhh... g-guys, if I could interject, briefly here, and this is me, speaking from my own experience here... that feels a little rash.... You're both under a great deal of stress and I don't think now is the time to make important life decisions and I'll tell you what works for me and maybe...” he winced as the ongoing thread of pain in his shoulder spiked at the shrug he couldn't help.

He was losing his audience, he could feel that. Scratching through the muddle in his skull for anything that would keep him alive, he blurted what was on his mind – a warm bath. Soaking in one would be bliss regardless of how much crap he gave his dad about it. He'd even welcome the mango scented suds if he could just sink into that comfort. He shivered as he babbled about taking turns – realizing how it sounded though it was obviously too late to take it back.

“You got a smart mouth!” And obviously Bad Guy number two didn't like the way it sounded either because suddenly his gun was out and aiming towards vulnerable flesh and there wasn't a single decent corner to back into to escape the hard metal shoving into his throat and threatening to clip a vital hunk of his jugular.

“Hey look, I got it under control...” Garth, Mr. Baddie Uno with the porn star moniker, actually seemed to be helping out. Until he continued speaking. “You want me to shoot him right now myself, I will!”

Shawn glared – unable to stifle himself when so much of his energy was focused on pain management. “Not to be a stickler but you did... you did shoot me once already...”

Baddie Two raised his gun a second time, an intimidation tactic that Shawn found highly effective as it dried up his responses the moment the weapon settled into the hollow beneath his jaw. “Shut up.” Turning to his partner, the greasy haired man jerked his head. “I don't need you screwing up again – there's too much at stake. You just stay here. I'll take care of this myself.”

“Wait! Woah, woah, wo-UKK!” Shawn's head snapped back as the handle of the gun whipped against his jaw. The dark he'd so recently escaped crowded in again and spiraled across his eyes. He wasn't completely out because he could still feel things happening. There was the sound of ripping accompanied with the sensation of tipping forward.

His vision teased at returning as odd blinks of light fluttered against his lids. Opening his eyes made the ache in his brain spectacularly worse, but this wasn't the time to indulge the injury. He was lying on his side – only a few inches from the concrete. _What_ he was lying on was shortly answered when he heard and felt the wheels beneath him squeal and start to rattle over the garage floor. He was being pushed on a flat dolly towards the far end of the building. He tried to kick himself off but found that his ankles were now taped as well as his wrists. His shoulder was a mass of ache – throbbing hot with every bump over the rough surface.

“Look, I told you, I can take care of it!” The dolly stopped with another jolt. Garth was still arguing. Was he wanting to make it right this time? But then why had he bothered with the whole kidnap thing in the first place when a second gunshot would have ended his problem? Because he wasn't a killer...

“And I told you to finish up with the truck! We can't keep wasting time on this! Now get out of my way or join the kid. Your choice.”

A few seconds later, the dolly started rolling again, the pain going from discomfort to agonizing as they moved through the door and onto the gravel. Shawn tried to roll but the single movement took his breath in a grunt. There was nothing but a lot filled with junked cars on this side of the building. No passing vehicles filled with witnesses to put a stop to the crime in progress. Gus had to have gotten his message by now. They had to be looking for him! They had to find him... they had to. The dolly reached the edge of the gravel – the only thing beyond it a twelve foot slope of dirt, rocks, and sparse grass leading into the woods.

“Now you keep quite about this, you got me?” A crappy joke made worse as silver tape slapped over Shawn's mouth and pressed tight. Shouting through his nose only carried so far, but shout he did... until the dolly was tipped sideways. Thrown off the surface, Shawn's cry lasted as long as the weightlessness – clipping off into airless silence the moment he slammed against the ground. So much hurt radiated through him that he couldn't even whimper as he bounced and rolled nearly to the bottom of the hill – a busted off stump the only thing stopping him. The tape on his mouth had partly lifted away after his face had dragged over a flat span of rock. Of course, several layers of skin had been taken with it and the taste of blood was an unwelcome replacement for gluey stick.

Footsteps above knocked more rocks and dirt free – scattering the debris down the hill. Shawn looked up, dragging a sharp breath. Without expression – without words – the greasy haired man lifted the gun.

Shawn flinched.

There was a moment where he remembered fireworks on the Forth of July.

His head rocked back. He tasted gunpowder.

And then nothing.

0o0o0

Henry thrust his hand against Lassiter's chest, both of them stopping as the sound carried through the air.

“That was close. Maybe two miles...” Henry turned his head a few different ways – trying to pinpoint the direction of the report as it faded off to silence. The mountains had made the echo bounce around, but still...

“That way.” Lassiter pointed slightly northwest where they'd been hearing intermediate traffic sounds for the past few minutes. Henry actually agreed with Carlton and the two of them stepped up the pace – Lassiter still trailing a few feet behind as they hurried over terrain better suited for hiking boots than the once polished leather shoes on the detective's feet. Henry could care less about his companion's limp, however. Shawn was hurt. How badly, neither one of them knew. Everything else took third place to that.

Ten minutes later the two of them broke through the remaining brush. Several logging trucks rocked past them on the highway that led deeper into the mountains. The heat from the sun baked the tar and sent back waves that made watery illusions in the distance. Henry wiped his lips and squinted against the brightness. Shading his eyes, he was just able to spot a small building about half a mile down the road.

“Come on!” Behind him, Lassiter groaned, but followed regardless as they half jogged towards the only structure in sight.

The station appeared to have had its last paint job sometime around the same year Henry had proposed to his ex wife. The closest thing to new about the lot was the tow truck parked out front. Nostalgic had given way to seedy and neglected long ago and the two men slowed their steps accordingly.

The five degree drop in temperature under the gas station canopy was acknowledged by a sigh from Lassiter. His tie had been removed as had his jacket. However, as they approached the front door, he slipped his arms back through the sleeves and buttoned the heavier garment. Office ready professionalism had taken a slight hit with the dripping sweat and mussed hair, but Henry suspected the real intent was to hide the shoulder holster as opposed to following dress code.

Knuckles rapped on the door – rattling the dusty glass. Pushing his face close to the window, Henry was able to scan the interior. It only took seconds to focus on the vehicle parked inside the garage. Lassiter, who'd been looking over his shoulder, immediately pushed him to the side and pulled both his weapon and his cell phone. Using his thumb to dial, he called in to his partner for backup.

“Take the Maiposa exit off the one sixty-six...” Seconds after speaking, Lassiter's jaw tightened. Whatever his partner had said in response had been significant. “Dammit. Okay, just make sure you get here ASAP!” Another pause, the two men constantly checking their backs before the detective finished speaking. “It can't wait; we need to go in. Just get here!” And then the phone was snapped shut and returned to his belt.

“She said this is close to the location where the second robbery was supposed to take place.”

“How did she..?”

Lassiter shook his head. “She said she'd explain when she got here.”

Henry glanced around the area until he spotted a discarded wrench rusting next to the building's base. He didn't have a gun but like hell he was going in bare handed. He'd taught his son to make use of whatever was handy if a proper weapon was unavailable. He wasn't too proud that he couldn't do the same.

“I'll head around back.” He whispered. Lassiter grimaced but nodded. They both knew there wasn't any other choice.

Keeping low and hefting the short length of metal, Henry eased along the side of the station. Old oil cans and other similar clutter had drifted against the outside wall. Avoiding the detritus, he crept up to the corner and peeked around the back. It was a graveyard of forgotten cars and car parts that were as neglected as the garage. Still, they created a decent barrier from anyone trying to spot a rear approach. Sliding up to the back door, Henry had just placed his hand on the knob when he looked down.

Inside, he hard the front door kick open and Lassiter's voice shouting. “SBPD!”

Henry pulled open the back door a beat later, though he was certain that whoever owned the place was gone now. The moment Lassiter confirmed that for himself, Henry pivoted to head back outside. He ignored the startled shout behind him as the detective demanded he wait there until backup arrived to help them search the area. At this point, protocol be damned.

The drag marks were easy to see. From the back door, they led in a straight path about thirty yards to where the lot ended and the woods retook ownership of the landscape. The cold weight that had rested in Henry's gut since about four-thirty that morning was growing fast. He could feel it pushing into his lungs and up his throat.

The edge of the lot was just a few feet away. He only required one foot to see over the lip at what rested near the bottom of the hill. “God no...”

Angling to the side just enough to keep loosened stones from impacting the still form, Henry slid and stumbled down the embankment – palms and knees scraping on the harsh ground. Above him, Lassiter had stopped to call in once more before he too followed over the edge.

“Shawn... no kid... come on... come on, open your eyes son...” The blood around his head had turned a dark maroon where it had soaked into the dirt. There was a small hole just above Shawn's right ear. Blood seeped from the wound and continued to saturate the ground around him. Henry worked the tape free from his son's face as Lassiter skidded the last couple of feet down.

“Jesus Christ...” Muttered blasphemy and Lassiter knelt on the other side to place his fingertips against Shawn's throat while Henry pulled off his outer shirt to dam the flow from the gunshot. With his free hand, he dug out his pocket knife and silently held it out to the detective. No need for deeper communication, Lassiter took it and flipped open the blade before cutting through the tape wrapped around Shawn's wrists and ankles.

“He's still alive.” Henry said it without looking at the other man. It was a demand; not confirmed by much more than desperation. If Shawn was breathing it was too shallow to see. He was still bleeding though. Bleeding meant he was alive. But... it also meant he was dying.

“They're on the way; they're bringing an ambulance.” Lassiter added his jacket to the soaked through shirt in Henry's grip. Henry nodded once, a sharp head jerk, before placing his hand over Shawn's chest. Seconds clicked by – too many – before he felt a tiny lift beneath his palm. Respiration was too slow; too shallow.

“We need to elevate his head.” Shawn was angled down the slope with his legs almost four feet higher than the upper half of his body. Moving him was dangerous, but so was leaving him in that position. With Carlton holding Shawn's legs, the two were able to gently maneuver him around – Henry using the opportunity to rest Shawn's head on his lap rather than on the sharp twigs and rocks strewn about.

It wasn't until his son was lying against him that Henry noticed the second gunshot wound – this one right through his left shoulder. “Lassiter.” Nodding down towards the other source of blood loss, Henry kept his hands in place while the detective frowned, rolled his eyes, and stripped one more garment from his body.

“Dammit, this rate I'll be lucky to keep my pants.”

In spite of the words, Lassiter's tone wasn't irritated but tense. Still, Henry knew his son would have taken that comment and run with it. He held tight to the limp body and prayed silently for his kid to wake up and do just that. Or just to wake up. Just be okay.

Detective O'Hara and the officers with her beat the ambulance by two minutes. Gus, unsurprisingly, had ridden with the young woman. Both of them ran towards edge of the embankment once Lassiter's shout gave them a direction. Henry did his best to shield his son from the stones and clods of dirt knocked loose by the two as they practically screeched to a halt. One of the sharper rocks managed to gouge the back of Henry's hand. However, as it was the one protecting Shawn's face, he didn't mind the injury. Still, he yelled a “Watch it!” to the newly arrived rescue crew just the same.

Officers gave way to paramedics as the second wave made their way down to the huddled group of three. Lassiter backed away to make room, but Henry stayed in place, supporting his son until a back board could be eased beneath him. Once strapped down, four of the medics grabbed the handles and carried their burden back up to the top where the ambulance had been parked.

Henry followed, trying not to shove away help when Guster took his arm on the last five feet of slippery gravel. The ambulance doors closed just moments before he reached the top. A slap on the back doors and the vehicle pulled away.

“Come on, I'll drive you.” Gus had his keys out and gave a tug towards the front of the building – no doubt where he'd parked his car.

Detective O'Hara waved him off when the younger man turned her way with his eyebrows raised. “Go ahead – Buzz brought Carlton's car over. I'll catch a ride with him.”

Not concerned with the game of musical cars, Henry brushed past his self appointed chauffeur and headed through the garage – the quickest route to the little blue vehicle. Gus hit the button to unlock it just as he placed his hand on the door and he wasted no time sliding into the seat. He buckled up while Gus got behind the wheel.

“Come on, come on!” Not that Gus wasn't hurrying anyhow. No amount of speed would be enough at this point. The only thing that concerned Henry was assurance that Shawn would survive. And that was something he wouldn't get just sitting by the roadside. “Let's go, Gus!”

The key turned hard enough to draw a metallic shriek from the engine – the shaking fingers that had been gripping it moving to latch on to the steering wheel. Backing between two patrol cars, Gus got the little vehicle onto the road.

Then, facing the right way, he hit the gas and chased after his best friend.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	2. Where Everyone is Worried and Nobody is Talking

Clumps of hair dropped to the floor with every pass of the clippers, exposing the jagged hole three inches up from the patient's right ear. He was due in surgery in the next ten minutes.

His bare scalp was treated with antiseptic. While one attendant drew out lines where the incisions were to be placed, another prepped the second bullet hole in his upper left chest. Still another attendant checked the tubes feeding oxygen before moving on to the saline drip. Plasma flowed steadily down another tube fighting for space among the lines leading into both arms. The final step was to place a draping over the scalp – leaving plenty of room to slice into the tissue surrounding the wound. After that, he was ready for the surgery bay.

Once under the operative lights, the real work started.

Skin was cut back to expose the damaged bone beneath. Fissures and cracks led off from the point of penetration – some smaller fragments missing as they'd been pushed deeper into the skull from the force of impact. Debridment with saline solution followed – a long process of flushing contaminants from the traumatized pinkish-gray brain matter inside. Dirt, blood, and tiny fragments of bone were evacuated by the solution while larger pieces were painstakingly picked out with narrow forceps.

A sudden flood of thin red into the opening was accompanied by urgent beeping from one of the machines monitoring blood pressure. There was hemorrhaging somewhere out of sight. Suction kept the area clear while urgent searching tried to locate the source of the bleed. There! The vein was clamped, but now the heart monitor was going off. Pressure continued to drop, but it wasn't from the head wound.

Other hands busy at the shoulder were covered in blackish spatter from another hemorrhage. This one was much worse – involving an artery. An arc of blood spurted from the open wound as the surgeons fought to control it. Bags of plasma were replaced as so much was lost. Clamps pinched, saline rinsed, suction cleared, and pressure dropped further.

Seconds later, the rapid beeps became a single, long whine.

0o0o0o0

He hated waiting rooms. For a career that too often involved homicide, waiting rooms were forever linked together with the dead and dying. The last stop for too many family members desperate for news of their loved ones – only to be told they wouldn't be coming home again. It was where being a cop meant having to tell someone else he'd been too late – that the only thing he could do would be to find the killer – to solve the case. Any power he'd had as an officer was lost here. All faith he'd ever scrounged had been tested and lost on too many occasions to dredge any now. Sure, his son had been behind these walls in the past and had emerged whole if not completely hale. But never for something...

Henry stared at his hands rather than the wall – pale green and reminiscent of those horrid little mints they served at weddings. Like solidified toothpaste. Staring at his hands was better. They were mostly clean now, though with all the creases and valleys it had been taking longer than he'd had the patience for to scrub them back to pale tan. He'd wanted to know what was happening with Shawn. But there'd been no news. So he'd waited. He was still waiting.

Movement beside him reminded him that he wasn't the only one waiting.

Henry glanced at the younger man at his side...

0o0o0o0

He actually didn't mind waiting rooms. Antiseptic bathed the air in a germ free no fly zone and everyone walked around him in pristine garments of white. Clipboards and computers kept regular tallies of what came in and out. It was ordered and routine and it settled Gus's nerves with the promise that someone was in control. Sure, he knew the action beyond these soothing tea green walls was far more dramatic than this sedate setting implied, but that was okay. As long as he didn't actually have to see the drama for himself, everything would be fine.

Gus kept his hands between his knees in a tight clasp. They weren't sticky anymore – not after the half hour he'd spent in the bathroom scrubbing at every crease in his skin. But he was afraid to look at them. He was afraid he might have missed a spot. And if he saw anything – even a flake – then his orderly little world was going to crumble. He'd notice things (the way the wallpaper peeled up on the corner near the nurse's station) and he'd start to worry about other things (four hours – it's been four hours) and pretty soon he'd start to panic (Shawn has a bullet in his head! How can he survive that? What if he dies? What if he's in a coma?). But his hands stayed in his lap and his eyes stayed on the nursing staff. When one of the residents came through the room and proceeded to flirt with one of the nurses, Gus smiled. Shawn would have done that; she was cute and curvy and had short, blonde hair that made her look like a pixie. He'd have hit that in a heartbeat (what if his heart stops beating? What if they can't get it going again? Shawn had heart problems before – long ago. What if that complicates things now? What if...)

Henry's large hand pressed down on his knee. Until that moment, Gus hadn't realized that his leg had been pistoning up and down in a frantic beat. The abrupt absence of his heel tap dancing on the linoleum let him know what sound it was that had been just on the peripheral of his attention.

It should have felt strange to be comforted by his best friend's father. Well, it was a _little_ strange simply given that this was Henry Spencer and Henry Spencer didn't exactly hand out reassurance like Halloween candy. Wishing his mom was there so he could bury his face in the smell of coffee and fresh linen, Gus clung to the one parent figure he _did_ have close by. Henry didn't throw him off when Gus wrapped his fingers around the hand on his leg. Instead, he turned his hand to clasp back. It occurred to Gus that maybe Henry wasn't so much giving comfort as looking for it himself.

They sat there like that, both desperate for someone absent. They were incomplete puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together, but they made do with what they had.

Because, right then, it was _all_ they had.

0o0o0o0

They got his rhythm back, but the risk for complete failure remained strong as the surgery progressed.

In the next few hours the team went through two more bags of plasma while they struggled to repair the terrible injuries. It was decided that the bullet was in a position that made the risk of removal too great. Worse, even, than simply leaving it in place. What couldn't be predicted were the side effects from having the bullet spiral through brain matter on the way to its final resting place.

Forty minutes later and the surgeons had done all they could. The wounds were closed as best as possible with a tube left behind to monitor and control any fluid build up.

Leaving the rest of his staff to clean up, the head surgeon stripped his gloves and mask before heading out the double doors. He knew it was a cliche', but never the less, the next part of his job was, in many ways, harder than the surgery he'd just performed. Though many in his field preferred to fob off the task of updating family members on an underling, whenever possible, he took on that task himself. Changing into a clean pair of scrubs, no need to cause additional alarm by showing up spattered in blood, he took a final moment to wipe his glasses before proceeding to the waiting room.

0o0o0o0

They'd only been allowed to see Shawn for a few minutes before the nursing staff had hustled them out of the room again. Though he'd made it through surgery, his condition was still critical and they weren't taking any chances – not even with the people that loved him the most.

Afterward, Henry accepted the ride home from Gus. He'd been a little bit startled to see his truck in the driveway – though obviously it had been delivered there by officers sometime while he was waiting on news about his son. The light on his house phone was flashing when he entered his kitchen. Lifting the unit, he thumbed the code for his voicmail while continuing to the refrigerator and lifting out a beer.

“ _Mr. Spencer, it's Juliet – Officer O'Hara.”_

Henry smiled for a brief second at the self correction before his mood slipped away again. It was the memory of the doctor's voice. _'There may be some complications...'_

He leaned against the counter while the message continued, his beer settling beside him, unopened.

“ _I tried calling you on your cell phone but couldn't get through.”_

His battery had died at around six thirty, a consequence of neglect he normally associated with his son. But he'd had good reason to forget the charger.

“ _Anyway, I thought you should know, we found the men that did this. They're in custody right now, and they aren't going anywhere.”_

The casing of the phone creaked in his fingers.

“ _If Shawn... if you – when you hear how Shawn is doing, could you...? Or, I can call you in the morning. I just don't want to bother you, I know you're probably tired and...”_

“ _O'Hara...”_

Detective Lassiter could just be heard in the background – his voice strong in spite of the hour that the message had been left. Catching a criminal had a way of infusing a jolt of adrenaline through the system like no cup of coffee ever could. He remembered when that used to work for him too.

Cutting off her nervous babble, Detective O'Hara ended the call with a promise to talk soon.

There was another message after hers; Karen expressing her concerns as well as the assurance that the case against the men was solid. Two more messages were from a couple of guys Henry had known on the force during his time as an officer.

When he finally hung up and returned the phone to the charger, he no longer wanted his beer. Water was beaded on the glass as he grabbed the neck to return it to the refrigerator. He'd hoped to have heard from Madeline again, but he hadn't expected to. He'd spoken to her via Gus's cell phone, once, shortly after arriving at the hospital and again after finding out about Shawn's condition. She was currently in the middle of a tour through the East coast states that would end up in New York. That, however, had now changed.

The walk through his kitchen had no direction to guide it. He touched the dials on the stove as he passed the appliance – the knob for the far right burner jiggling loosely after Shawn had cracked it when he was ten. He'd always meant to replace that; had intended to buy a new knob every time he'd gone to the hardware store; but somehow it always slipped his mind.

His circuit brought him past the table and the jar of cooking implements. He pulled out the whisk that had tied his son in knots the first time he'd spotted it. Shawn had taken to hiding it every time he'd visited since then – always trying to outwit his old man. Neither one ever mentioned the game. Like a lot of things between them, they just never talked about it.

Henry sat in one of the chairs, still holding the whisk. He was finding it hard to breathe. Gasping brought oxygen but couldn't take away the pressure squeezing through his abdomen. It was like he'd become suddenly, violently, sick. He clamped his fists around the metal handle in his hands and twisted until the friction burned against his palms.

He should have insisted on staying with his son. The doctors and nurses didn't know Shawn as anything other than a number on a clipboard. In the ICU he was even less than that. “Head Trauma” – name and diagnosis one and the same. He was one of many; not a young man finding his footing after so many years flying above the ground, but just another patient to complicate their routine.

Henry came back to himself with his eyes pressed against the heels of his palms. His breathing had steadied but it still ached. His nose felt swollen and he sniffed as he dug a handkerchief from his pocket. After blowing his nose, he rested his forehead back in his hand. Age had never been so relevant to him as it was now – his fifty-five years felt through each joint and every heart beat. He felt as though he'd lost whatever vitality had carried him through the day in search of his son. The moment he'd seen his child crumpled at the bottom of that hill like a discarded piece of rubbish, the strength that had powered him forward had vanished. Whatever he may have been was gone.

He felt old.

End Notes:

________

The reviews you guys left blew me away! I'm just agog at the excitement you have for this fic! Trust me, my lack of response to each of you individually is due to my own fail, not for lack of appreciation and hyper squeeing! I adore every comment and in lieu of responding individually, I'm offering this chapter and working furiously on the third one! I promise to post as soon as I can! *hugs*

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	3. It's that Three in the Morning Kind of Color

Within the first twenty-four hours, they started to wean Shawn off of the heavy barbiturates. It would be at least ten days before they'd remove the tube from his skull – a balancing act between assuring drainage and preventing the inevitable infection that would result if it stayed in place too long.

Abigail had been called the night of the surgery once Shawn's condition had stabilized. Expectedly, the news had horrified her and had prompted her to confess something to Gus between her tears. She'd been gone for the past week in Washington. She'd told Shawn it was a work related retreat. It was... but not for her job at the school. In three months, she was leaving for Uganda. She didn't know how long she'd be gone, or when she'd be back. And she hadn't told Shawn.

Gus had assured Abby that he'd keep her updated until her return in the next two days.

Henry and Gus had taken turns watching over Shawn. While Gus had a block of time in which to stand guard, he had been forced to leave every night in order to get some rest for the work day. The only one to remain behind, the only one _allowed_ to stay for a few hours past the standard curfew, had been Henry.

That first couple of days had been brutal – most of his time spent alone with his son and watching for anything whatsoever to indicate there was hope of recovery. It had been slightly easier, though, when Abigail returned from her trip. Right around four every day, she would come straight from her class to let him go home for a few hours. As much as he'd wanted to stay and look after his boy, he'd known he couldn't keep it up forever. Besides, it had given him a chance to call Maddie without disturbing the peace of the ICU.

But now, with the drugs filtering out of Shawn's system, Henry was back to staying right by his son's bedside, even into the night, with special permission from the doctor.

Consciousness returned almost before he'd had time to worry if it ever would. The first time Shawn opened his eyes was around three in the morning the day after he'd been taken completely off the Nembutal. He hadn't been able to speak with the ventilator in place, but he hadn't stayed awake long enough for conversation anyhow. His eyes had rolled back and forth a bit and then, sighing, he'd slipped under once more.

Still, the neurologist was able to confirm increased brain activity and Henry took every positive he could find.

The second time Shawn woke up was four hours later. Henry had dozed off, but a nurse taking Shawn's vitals had been there for the event. Waking Henry with a pat on his shoulder, she'd left to get the doctor.

Pushing up a bit with his hands braced on the chair arms, Henry watched for a few moments, assuring himself that this wasn't just another ten seconds of consciousness. Shawn was still a little high on pain medication so anything said to him would probably be passing through a fairly thick filter.

“Hey, kid.” As he spoke, Henry placed his hand on Shawn's wrist.

Barely more than a flicker of his eyelids, the only thing indicating awareness was an increase in his heart monitor.

“Shawn, calm down, son, you're okay.” Henry kept his hand in place and his voice low as Shawn seemed to wake up more and more. As he soothed, the door behind him opened again with the returning nurse as well as Shawn's primary surgeon. The two didn't say much as approached the bed, though the doctor greeted Henry with a nod before leaning over to check Shawn's vitals. The nurse, meanwhile, switched out the nearly empty bag hanging from the IV pole.

“You're looking good, son.” The doctor patted his patient on the arm as he straightened. “Henry,” he lifted his eyebrows as he turned to address the nervous father hovering a protective twelve inches away, “you mind fetching some ice chips? I think he'll be wanting them in a few minutes.”

The distraction play was all well and good for feeble parents on the verge of hysterics. However, Henry never had and never would fit that label. He crossed his arms and stood his ground until the doctor returned his attention to the person who actually needed his concern.

Removing the ventilator was more difficult to watch than Henry had thought. No wilting pansy, he still felt a tight pain in his gut at the rough coughs and gagging as the tube was pulled from Shawn's throat. The kid seemed more awake afterward; the doctor praising the efforts of his patient who'd had no choice in the matter. Finally, though, the contraption gone and the mass of tubing was replaced by less intrusive nasal leads.

All the while, Shawn's eyes moved, constantly looking, searching. He had yet to look towards his father – or at anyone else in the room. His lips had begun to move but no sound followed other that a wheeze of air. The doctor had warned that he may not be able to speak right away, but it was still disheartening to see.

“I'm right here, Shawn. You're safe. You're in a hospital.” The assurances struck against the bubble around his son and clattered to the floor. Still, the drifting eyes moved towards his voice... but fell short – staring instead towards the closet.

Once the nurse had completed her few duties, the doctor leaned over his side of the bed and placed one hand against the rail.

“Shawn? My name is Doctor Belic. Can you say hello?”

Now squinting, the look of odd searching changed to one of confusion. The request for a simple greeting was a gauge for determining the level of post operative success. Eyebrows lifted, still appearing to be trapped in a fog, Shawn mouthed the request. Though mute, his compliance brought a trace of relief to Belic's face.

“That's good, son. Now, I'm going to touch your shoulder and take a quick peek at your stitches. Do you understand?”

There was hesitation, but then Shawn nodded. He still stiffened and snuffed in a breath at the contact, but held still as the doctor leaned in and checked first the shoulder wound, and then moved to his skull. When Belic touched the tight line of stitches above his ear, Shawn flinched and raised his hand, his brows pushing tight at the center. Gently, Belic pushed his arm back down to the bedding.

“Now, now – we wouldn't want you tampering with these.”

The doctor kept up his assurances while Henry remained silent. Shawn was breathing more or less evenly now and that was what mattered.

It only took a few moments to make certain the stitches were still intact. Seeming pleased with what he found, the doctor finished up his exam by pulling out a penlight and giving a visual system's check of all the working parts. Shawn flinched now and then when the doctor leaned in too close. He swallowed hard a few times but hadn't tried speaking again.

Finally Belic stepped back. “Alright, Shawn, I'll be back in just a moment. Sit tight, okay, son?”

Shawn nodded again and sank back into his pillow – his face blank.

“Dad, would you mind coming with me for a moment?” Belic guided Henry towards the far end of the room. Keeping Shawn in his line of sight, Henry crossed his arms leaned back against the wall.

Beilc sighed. “As I'd suspected, there are some complications from the surgery as well as the injury itself. Shawn's speech hasn't yet returned, but that will likely be a short term inconvenience and should resolve itself soon. However, due to the location of the bullet, we have another hurdle to deal with now as well.

“He's blind.”

The doctor didn't seem surprised that Henry had noticed the problem. He nodded back.

“The bullet is lodged in the base of the occipital lobe, the part of the brain that controls vision. It also appears that some fragments splintered into the cerebellum as well, so it's possible there may be some loss of fine motor control on his right side. We can't know for certain how badly he's been affected until we're a little further along in his recovery, but you need to be aware of what Shawn might be up against.”

Henry swallowed as he rubbed one hand over his face – leaving his fingers pressed against his lips as he studied his son. Shawn was still fighting with his medication – and losing given the long blinks of his eyes. Right now his awareness was probably out the window. But in another day...

“How long?”

Belic knew immediately what was being asked. “We can't know for certain. His sight could return in a few days, or... or it could be permanent.”

If asked, Henry would say he preferred a straight answer every time. He didn't tolerate waffling; even less so the tendency to be evasive. That went for criminals, doctors, and his own son. And while part of him appreciated the facts spelled out in black and white, the part of his mind that was inexorably attached to his soul wouldn't stop repeating the same three words over and over until they ricocheted in a blur through his skull. Shawn is blind, Shawn is blind, Shawn is blind.

“If Shawn remains stable through the rest of the day, we'll consider moving him from the ICU tomorrow. Visitation time will be less restrictive and you'll probably even be allowed to remain with him through the night.”

Fine, great, but tomorrow was tomorrow. It was this moment, right now, that he needed to be with his son. The last trickle of information sounded close enough to a wrap up for Henry, so he thanked Belic without more than a glance at his face and wove around his body to return to the bed.

Shawn was still awake, though just barely. His gaze had stopped roving about the room and was now locked in a soft stare almost directly at one of the overhead lights.

“Shawn.” The address was more to let his son know of his presence than because he had anything to say. He touched the blanket next to Shawn's fingers and had them instantly clamped in a moist grip. The eyes started moving again, though now there was squinting as well – he could almost feel the strain Shawn was putting into trying to see. However, it was short-lived. On his next blink, his eyes remained shut. Soon after that, the grip slackened until Henry was clutching limp fingers. Resting the hand back on the bed, he leaned over to pull the blanket higher before stepping back and taking a deep breath.

“He's asleep.” He whispered as Belic moved to the opposite side of the bed. The doctor nodded in response.

“He'll probably be out again for the rest of the night. Why not head home? There will be someone in here to check on Shawn about once an hour.”

Henry smoothed a wrinkle in the blanket – brushing fingers against fingers and then keeping the contact without returning the doctor's look.

“No.” He coughed out the thickness in his throat. “No, I'll stay.”

He heard Belic move nearby, and then a hand patted his shoulder. He managed not to shake it off.

“I'll have one of the nurses bring in some fresh bedding for you.”

Henry didn't plan to sleep. After Belic left, he returned to the chair he'd abandoned over twenty minutes ago. The blanket he'd used the night before was still draped over the arm. Pulling it across his lap against the coolness of the room, he felt down beside himself for the magazine he'd fallen asleep while reading earlier.

Good Housekeeping wasn't his first choice, absolutely the reason he'd passed out while halfway through an article about the best garden flowers for a fall bouquet. Still, it would get him through the next hour or so until he could slip down the hall and charm the morning paper from the nurse's station.

But then, maybe by that time, he wouldn't need it.

0o0o0

His hands dragged over his scalp, over and over, exploring the smoothness of the it. It reminded him of the warm skin on a puppy's belly. Not even the dusting of prickles normally left over from a close shave. He didn't touch the right side of his head. Not after that first time. Something was sticking out of his skull right above his ear and from underneath a square of bandaging. It was fascinating, but kinda freaky too.

He finally dropped his hand back to his side. He blinked. Still dark. Where was he anyhow? Granted, he assumed it was a hospital or possibly the Humanidyne Institute. Well it was freaking dark wherever the hell it was. He squinted again as he tried picking out even the smallest glow. There were machines nearby, he could hear the hum, so it shouldn't be too much of a stretch to think that they had dials or readouts or some sort of illumination.

Nada. Or, in the words of the great Jack Spencer, it was darker than Jabba the Hut's asshole. He cleared his throat for the zillionth time and really wished he had a glass of water. He'd tried asking for a glass of water, which hadn't been possible because his throat was so dry he couldn't speak – which meant he needed water – which he couldn't get because... he couldn't speak. He'd never been a big fan of circular arguments unless they worked in his favor and/or pissed off his dad.

So, with the choices being another attempt at speech or feeling up his Gus-like dome, he opted for number three. Of course, pouting was way better with an audience. However, it was a quiet activity and allowed him to return to a question he'd studied on not long after he'd first woken up.

What the hell happened to him?

He was getting panicky. He needed to not do that. He needed to figure out what happened and that meant he needed his mind to cooperate with him.

Backtrack. What was the last thing he remembered? And actually, that was a stupid question because the last thing he remembered was everything going theatrically black. The better question was, what was the second to the last thing he remembered?

Ice cream. Something about ice cream on the police scanner. He and Gus had been in the office and... and they been flicking cashews at each other. Okay, Shawn had been flicking cashews and Gus had been trying to defend himself with a tennis racket. And that was when they'd heard a staticy voice mention ice cream. Gus's tummy had growled like a baby pug and so they'd called a truce on nut wars and had headed for the car.

And... And then everything after that was empty. Yet, somehow, he'd gone from ice cream to lying in a dark room with his head shaved and his arm in a sling. So, memory was out... what next? He still couldn't talk, though he tried again just to be sure. This always worked so much better if he could talk it out. He needed to be reassured by the soothing mellow tone of his own voice... Accident! That had to be it! They were driving to where the dispatcher had said there was a truckload of unclaimed frosty goodness when... when they must have been hit. They must have... But if he was here... where...

God, Gus... Where was Gus?!

Panic again, but this time it wasn't going away. He felt around beside himself, knowing there had to be a remote or switch or something... call button, it was a call button. He reached farther – straining – and finally felt something other than his blanket. It was a... he walked his fingertips over the surface. A... head? He squeezed it as though testing the softness of a melon.

The head jerked and there was a muted grunt as it pulled from his grip. “Ow... Shawn?”

Dad! Of course it was dad! Holy crap, he must really be hurt if Henry was passing out on his hospital cot!

The mattress pushed down as his father shifted – probably sitting up. Shawn tried, again, to speak. He actually forced out a squeak of sound. Excited by the progress, he tried again.

“...dad...” It was shot through with gravel, but he had a voice regardless of the timbre.

“Hey, how are you doing, kiddo?” It was odd to hear his dad whispering. It didn't fit him. And yet, it was nice. And then the earlier worries came back in a flood.

“Gus?”

The bed moved again and then fingers wrapped around his own. “He went home a few hours ago but said he'd stop in... what's wrong?”

Shawn pulled his hand free to wipe it over his eyes. “He wasn't hurt?”

“Hurt? Why would Gus be...?” His dad now put a hand on his arm. “Shawn, do you remember what happened?”

That was a bonus round question right there. He really did try to think. _Ice cream... they were looking for ice cream..._ but the solid wall that enclosed the rest of the memories from then till about twenty minutes ago was not only impenetrable, but painful. The sharp twist through his temples dragged a bright yellow strip of police tape across the wall. The “Do No Cross” was a warning he decided to obey for the moment when his stomach tickled its own warning.

“Here...” A light swish and clinking was followed by a cool, damp cloth pressing over his eyes. He winced at the unexpected cold, but then felt the muscles in his neck start to loosen as the throb in his skull began to tug its claws free.

And it was as he was settling back down against his pillow that all those easily ignored clues started to slide together in his mind. The unlit machines, the too dark room, the fact that his dad could spot a microscopic glisten of shine in his eyes; a wince of pain; when he himself couldn't see the end of his highly visible nose.

He pulled the cloth from his eyes. Everything was so dark. No hospital room was ever this dark.

“Dad...?” He swallowed on the question, knowing the answer now but not able to stop himself from actually hoping, for the first time, that his deductions were absolutely, a thousand percent, wrong.

But then his father, without needing to hear him ask it, answered.

End Notes:

_______________

I hope you all are still liking this thing XD

Again, thank you so much for all the amazing amazing reviews!! I'm trying to get caught up on responding cause you all deserve a gigantic hug of thanks!!

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	4. Call Me Mr. Glass

Dad was upstairs, finally. The old man was one step away from setting up a bunk in Shawn's bedroom as it was, so getting him to take a shower during the middle of his guard duty shift had taken some creative urging. A whole two weeks since the “incident” and Grumbles still wouldn't loosen the collar. Shawn had pointed out that his other senses were a lot stronger now in compensation for the one that was dragging behind the rest of the class. He didn't need to see how dirty his father was when the lining of his nose had just caught on fire. This, of course, had led to the observation that that comment had sounded way less perverted in his head. And about then was when his father had muttered something that even Shawn's “Superman” hearing hadn't been able to pick up and had stomped upstairs. Minutes later he'd heard the shower kick on and he'd taken that opportunity to flee.

After two banged shins, a stubbed toe, and an unexpected tounging by a Shetland pony, Shawn was feeling his way along the fence in front of the neighbor's house. He could hear waves crashing to his left and could feel the heat of the sun on the top of his head – putting it between noon and six. Yeah, so he'd yet to perfect telling time by the length of shadows on the ground. Not that it was really helpful now anyway...

He stopped by eighth picket, holding on with his right hand. His legs were already feeling wobbly and with his equilibrium still untrustworthy he was questioning his choice to bolt.

The phone in his pocket played its five note chime so he braced himself against the fence while digging it out. And instantly he was hit with that same frustration all over again. It could be Gus, calling to tell him he was ready to “pick up the package” and that the “eagle had flown” along with an exaggerated wink. Or, it could be Abby checking in on him for the sixth time that day; she'd been extremely girlfriendy since his release from the hospital – not that he minded back rubs and hand holding and being spoon fed _all_ of his meals... Okay, so that wasn't entirely truthful. In fact, there were only a couple of times where she'd needed to help him. Mostly she'd been trying to teach him how to get a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth without stabbing himself in the eye. It was only a little humiliating. Yeah, no worse than, say, watching his father do an all day hook-up with a sexy fish scientist.

Well that, at least, he wouldn't have to experience for the unseeable future.

The phone chimed a forth time and Shawn finally gave in and thumbed the corner before putting it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“ _Hey, Shawn,”_

“Jules...” Of the six possibilities he'd had lined up on the other end of that call, Juliet was somewhere around number seven – behind Buzz and just before a very drunk Lassy.

“ _How are you doing?”_

He went for casual, trying to press his butt against the fence so he could cross his ankles. He got as far as twisting his hips when the wobbles struck again. Instinct caused him to swing his arms out – one obeyed and nearly threw his phone away while the other, trapped in its sling, lit on fire at the sudden jerk. Juliet must have heard the hiss of pain when he braced himself enough to bring the phone back because she immediately repeated her question, this time with a lot more urgency.

“I'm fine-” He pushed out between his teeth, barely sparing the oxygen for the tight assurance. So leaning was out but he knew there was a bench about fifteen feet from the end of the neighbor's property.

Cramming the phone between his cheek and shoulder – feeling a sharp pull from his wound – he grabbed the fence again and started for his next resting place.

“ _Well just try to take it easy.”_ Jules – one of the few people he could take such cliched advice from. Well, and Abby. Did that count as two-timing?

“I'll have you know, I am the Wikipedia entry on taking it easy.” His foot skidded on gravel and he nearly lost the phone again until he got his balance. At his back he could hear footsteps – a pair slapping the ground in a regular rhythm. A few seconds later he was passed by what sounded like two joggers. He didn't miss the disgust filled mutter of “drunk”. Well that was a little harsh. He wasn't slurring or anything.

“ _Shawn, look, part of the reason I called... well...”_ As she spoke, Shawn took the risk of releasing the fence as he started to slide his feet across the sidewalk. Juliet breathed out through her pause as he felt his toe hit the soft edge of grass.

“ _Have you been able to remember anything of that night?”_

He stopped, one foot on grass and the other on concrete. There was only one good reason for her to ask him that now.

“They set a trial date.”

He couldn't stand, unsupported, for long and before her next sigh he was on the move again – micro stepping towards the last known location of the bench.

“ _Two weeks from now.”_

Crap. “That... that is fast. That's... What, is Johnnie Cochran representing them?”

“ _Shawn, Johnnie Cochran is dead.”_

His shoulder was in agony now trying to hold his phone pinched at that odd angle. The multitasking thing was so not working. Grabbing the phone again and loosening the strain, he resorted to feeling the rest of the way with his feet – beyond relived when his shoe kicked the leg of the bench. During this mini drama, Juliet had continued to speak.

“ _Anyway, it's actually the DA that wants to push for a faster trial. Stanley has been out of the office a lot in the last few weeks for sick leave and I think that's part of the reason she's been so gung-ho about this. From what I've heard, there's still no word on whether or not she'll even be able to finish out the year.”_

Shawn tipped his head back – barely remembering to shut his eyes to prevent further injury from the sun. He should have remembered his sunglasses.

“I thought the case was a slam dunk whether I testified or not.” He hoped he didn't sound bitter. He couldn't really help it though. He also hadn't answered her question. But then, she probably had her answer anyhow at this point.

“ _In all probability it is. They just want to be sure they have as much ammunition against these guys as possible.”_

Yeah. Because a bullet in the brain wasn't enough all on its own. And how, exactly, would it go when he was asked if he could pick out his shooter in the courtroom? Was he supposed to get handsy with every face present or was random pointing preferred? 'Your honor, it's the menacing sounding dude on the right side of the room.' Granted, that all hinged on him remembering the event in the first place.

“Look, if I remember anything...” You'll be the first to know? That sounded like a brush off even in his head. He didn't mean to be snippy with Juliet. Especially not with Juliet. His dad? Heck yes – the guy more or less signed up for that abuse. Gus? To a lesser degree but he could defend himself if pushed too hard – even against an injured pal. Especially against an injured pal. Gus wasn't above fighting dirty.

“I'm trying, Jules.” He could afford the loss of some pride if it meant not alienating a friend. He was realizing how few of those he had when he truly needed them. It was bad drama at its best and he was fresh out of comic relief.

“ _I know you are.”_

When he hung up, he slid his phone into his shirt pocket and slumped against the bench. He hadn't lied to Jules – he really was trying to remember. Mostly. The thing was, he wasn't sure how much he _wanted_ to remember. He'd been told, as best as could be pieced together by people who hadn't been there, what had happened. But it was no different than a water-cooler chat about last night's episode of The Closer. It was exciting and would probably make a kick ass show, but it wasn't like he'd actually starred in the series. It was just a story.

He shivered though the temperature, he was sure, hadn't changed. Every so often he'd been getting chills – he'd like to claim they were psychic portents, but even Buzz would know they had more to do with the hole through his head. Nausea was next, nausea was always next, and he regretted his little Shawshank Redemption as he curled around the twisted rope of his gut.

More footsteps – more joggers that would see him as a well dressed bum. Puking wasn't going to help his cause.

“Shawn!”

Funny how that particular tone initiated hurling. He hoped there was no one in his line of fire as he evacuated the oatmeal and fruit he'd eaten only an hour earlier. No immediate screams so he had that much going for him. The touch on his shoulders caused a flinch even knowing who it was. He was far from used to unexpected contact – unexpected sounds. He had been trying to disguise his startle reactions but sometimes he couldn't prevent that sharp hitch in his shoulders – that gasp of breath.

A few more wet chugs in his throat brought up nothing more than air. Still, he remained curled over the arm of the bench until his inhaled breath no longer carried the urgent reflex to gag.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” He hissed back. His arm was in a sling, he had some fancy new ventilation in his skull and, oh yeah, he was blind! Clearly he was at the top of his game. But self-pity was for lesser wounds, ones that could actually be soothed with sweet treats – _“we just heard 'ice cream' on our police radio and it happened to be Gus's snack time.”_

Shawn spit a mouthful of foulness – his brain screaming to place that sudden memory. He couldn't see any images, but he heard his voice saying the words. It was getting to be really, really annoying.

He felt his father sit down beside him. He heard a rubbery thonk bump against the bench. He didn't fight it when hands tipped him up against the back of the bench. Weird how he could feel dizzy even without his vision.

“That was a fast shower.”

Even though his dad had released him again, his arm stayed across the bench behind his shoulder. He could feel its warmth on his neck.

“I didn't take a shower.”

Of course he hadn't. Of course not.

“You followed me.”

Maybe he should be pissed. He probably should be pissed. All he felt was the sun and the breeze and the ache spreading fast from his epic journey of fifty feet. Okay, he was a little pissed.

“Yep.”

Shawn twisted, trying to rub the back of his neck where the pain had begun to spike. He winced as his movements brought hurt to other places. A larger hand than his own settled at the base of his skull and gently started to knead. It hurt, just a little at first. But after some flinching and mumbles the massage seemed to help.

“So you were stalking me the whole time since I'd left the house, and yet, you couldn't be troubled to yell, 'hey Shawn, look out for the guy walking the Weimaraner!'”

Someone screeched near the waterline. Shawn tensed until he realized it was laughter.

“It was a Great Dane and I didn't realize the thing was that friendly until it was already jumping at you.”

And usually that wouldn't be a source of complaint, but a ninja mauling by a grizzly sized slobber yeti had nearly cost him the cleanliness of his underpants.

“You okay?”

Shawn snorted. “You asked me that already.”

His father rested his palm flat against the back of his neck. “I did.”

Shawn listened to the seagulls. They dipped close enough that he hear the wuff wuff of their wings lifting them through the air. He wanted to see them. He _really_ wanted to see them.

“You don't happen to have a tic tac do you?”

The hand left his shoulder to make the sound of delicate clacks. His free hand was taken in a grip that was soft and a couple of the small mints were rested in his palm. They snapped their cold sweetness on his tongue when he tossed them in his mouth.

While he was occupied with breath refreshment, his father thumped something next to him.

“You left this at the house.”

His waving hand was caught again and guided towards a handle he recognized.

“Oh, that.” Yeah, that. As if leaving it behind hadn't been the whole point. He pushed at the rubber grip – tilting it away only to have it rock back when he released it. “It doesn't help.”

“Not if you don't use it.”

That, too, was also sort of the point. Not that he wanted to struggle for every step, but dragging that old man's cane everywhere he went just seemed to make things more difficult. The four, rubber tipped feet constantly caught on stuff and more than once he'd stumbled after catching his toe on one of them.

And also, it was an old man's cane.

“So you'd rather pull yourself along the edge of a fence than use something that's designed to help you balance?”

Awesome summation. The man could've been a detective. “Yes.”

“That's idiotic.”

“Your shirt is idiotic.”

He winced at that. His dad didn't comment on the obvious though.

He breathed out through his nose and tipped his face to the sky. Now that he'd made it to a destination of sorts, Shawn didn't know why it had seemed so important to escape. He was exhausted and he still had to make that long walk back. He could be listening to the ocean just as easily from the deck. Plus, there were beverages back at the house.

“What time is the appointment tomorrow?”

“Three – and no, you can't skip it.”

“I wasn't planning to!” He was, but that was his business. What could his doctor tell him that his eyes couldn't? His vision hadn't improved – there wasn't any to improve on in the first place. He was still getting headaches, but then he'd been told he'd probably have migraines for the next several weeks or even months. His right side was weak, his left side was shot, and his appetite was compromised by nausea. Unless Billy Crystal was waiting at the clinic with a Miracle Pill, he didn't see a lot of point in getting prodded for the sake of his health care premiums.

His head itched and he wished he'd remembered a hat. He was already sporting a dad do so may as well take it all the way. Really, the only benefit about the dusting of peach fuzz on his scalp was that he didn't have to worry about styling faux pas for a while.

“You look like you could use a nap.”

Apparently he'd closed his eyes.

“I could take one if you'd stop talking to me.”

His father snorted. “Your nose is already turning pink. Ten more minutes of this and it'll take a spatula to get you off this bench.”

And that was a bad thing? “So long as I don't have to walk.”

He wished he could at least start an argument. Funny how many of the things that cut a line in the sand between them had to do with his sight. His dad dating nymphomaniac banshees was one of the few that had remained open for tension; but even that one had lessened in recent years. The last hellcat had even gotten a scratch and sniff sticker of approval. Well, a Mr. Yuck face of tolerance might be a better analogy.

Shawn grabbed his cane and began to scoot to the edge of the bench. Things were starting to get a little too heavy in his brain. He'd left the house for a break from his thoughts but here he was, right back in that same rut again. He was right at the verge of touching that giant Dumbo taking up the majority of his thinking space – a pachyderm he had no intention of trying to identify with his hands. One blind man trying to figure out the odd shape in the middle of his head. Poor little Shawn thinks the tusk in his sweaty fingers is a handful of broken taillight – red shards that are the beginning of everything. He doesn't realize it's the bloodied pieces from his own skull. It isn't his future he's holding, it's the ruin of it.

He's on his feet for barely a second before his father's hands are braced around him. Such a violent tug of desires – to turn the support into comfort or to pull away. He hasn't dislodged the stone in his throat yet, though every day it feels bigger. If he allows his father to hold him, even to help, it just might slip free. So he shakes off the hands.

“I got it. Just... do me a favor and let me know if I'm about to step off a cliff or walk past the roasted peanuts guy, okay?”

There's a moment before his father speaks, a moment before his steps move to follow. It hadn't been meant as rejection, but in hindsight, that's probably what it had felt like. But whatever small hurt had come from him pulling away, it's left in the sand behind them.

“Sure thing.”

His father doesn't try to touch him, but he does walk by his side, matching step for limping step. By the time they get back to the house, he knows he'll have regretted his prison break far more than the thrill he'd felt when he'd thought he'd actually gotten away with it. But he also knows, now, that his dad doesn't plan to rub it in. He isn't seeking out pity but that doesn't mean he wants to be treated like a hopeless loser either.

And then his legs start to wobble and his father's hands are there, keeping him from a face plant and steadying him until he can brace himself up under his own strength. When the hands leave him again, he knows they don't move far – he can feel their heat near the middle of his back. He doesn't mind though, this time. There's a balance between them that they sometimes achieve. It won't last – it never does. But for now, they're doing okay.

It isn't perfect, but as Shrek said to Donkey, it will do.

End Notes:

___

Syd... you, as always, and you know why!! *tacklehugs*

And all my stunning reviewers/readers/encouragers - ALL the things you've said have sent me into true jaw-dropping glee! I know I'm a horsko for my reply lackage but thank you so much for putting up with my lameness!! I love you helltons and would smish you to bits if I saw you in person!! *hugs*

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	5. Every Halftime Show Needs a Malfunction

“How about now?”

Shawn squinted. “Um... I'm getting... beige. No... no, more like a... taupe?”

“Shawn...”

His father hadn't put a great deal of energy into his exasperation. In fact, he likely hadn't even rolled his eyes. If anything, he'd just sounded bored. Well, bored or tired; which was hard to determine without seeing his face.

And that was essentially, basically, exactly the problem.

There was a squeak – rubber sole on tile – and Shawn felt fingertips push gently against his jaw as his face was tilted up. He hoped nobody saw his flinch – quickly disguised by a shoulder twist. There was the slightest click to his right.

“Hmm...” Air and the acid sour odor of vending machine coffee flushed across his nose. The stink he could manage, but the weird baby softness of fingertips tapping across his cheekbone was edging over the creepy line that hovered somewhere between Tiny Tim and Lyle Lovett.

“Well?” Henry was still sticking to one word commentary it seemed. At least, this time, Shawn wasn't the one expected to explain himself.

More rubber squeaking as Gropey turned to give Henry a look that perfectly blended reproach and exasperation. Dad might have an advantage on any given day on any average street but this was Belic's house and if a throw down was in order, Shawn was certain the old doc could take...

The fingertips scurried over his opposite cheek and there was no way to disguise his flinch this time. Okay so maybe the doc wasn't giving Henry a western stare down. Which he'd have known if he could actually _see_. Of course, if he could _see_ , he wouldn't be wincing from the clammy digits pushing and pulling his face – as if a different angle would somehow magically give him his sight.

The squishy hands finally let him go and Shawn couldn't help but rub his cheek against his shoulder. He hoped it was subtle. Actually he didn't care if it was subtle – he had the damp residue of Doctor Baby Hands on his face for the love of David Bowie.

His father moved closer to his left side. The reek of Stetson and fishy sweat was unmistakable. “One of Shawn's physical therapists thought it might be something called Riddich Phenomenon...”

“Woooah... dad...” Shawn lifted a finger to halt the big word flood from exploding past the levee and further destroying the brutally abused curvature of his brain. “You're saying I can see in the dark?”

“Shawn, that would be Riddik Phenomenon.” Gus on his right – his voice giving direction and a jump through the skin that thankfully Shawn managed to keep to himself. He covered it by snatching his hand towards the rustle of neatly pressed shirt and slacks, managing by luck to grip an earlobe. Immediately his fingers were smacked away.

“Dude, your fingers are clammy!”

Shawn could hear frantic activity followed by the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol as his best buddy in the universe made hasty movements to clean the Shawn cooties from his skin. Well _that_ was slightly offensive. “Seriously, man? I'm pretty sure I don't have rotor rooter virus.”

“It's Rotavirus and I know you know that!”

“I know you know that!” Shawn parroted in a mocking nasal. Swiping out again, he struck another hit against meaty buttocks. However, his building whoop of victory was cut short when the yelp that emerged had the distinct white man tone of his clutchy physician.

“Shawn!” His dad grabbed his wrist to prevent further molesting.

“Oops?” Heat skimmed up the back of his neck.

Apparently recovering from the poorly aimed butt punch, Belic once more returned his sweaty digits to their preferred roost – Shawn's cheekbone. No way to disguise his flinch this time, Shawn was more bothered by the fact that the hand remained attached to his face like the slimy pod larva from Alien than he was by the fact that he'd shied away from the touch like a virgin bride getting her first lap dance from a plus sized stripper at her bachelorette party. And could he babble any harder? Without actually speaking? Great, now his headache was coming back.

The doctor's hands began mapping the new valley on the back of Shawn's head as he picked back up on the dropped conversation from earlier.

“First of all, everyone likes to think they're an expert. Your therapist may be qualified to advise you on leg stretches, but he doesn't know squat about brain trauma. Riddoch phenomenon is caused by lesions on the occipital lobe but will generally clear up with in a few minutes to a matter of hours. However, that isn't the same in your case. Your vision loss was brought about by the trauma from the gunshot wound.”

No really a bombshell of a reveal.

Belic was finally leaving Shawn's head alone – his soft soled shoes slapping their way to the left as he spoke. “As I've explained before, your vision could recover with time, but there's also a chance it may not. When you were shot, bone fragments damaged portions of you cerebrum – the part of your brain that controls everything from your emotions to regulating your body temperature. It also controls your vision. In this case I can honestly say we you were very lucky that the damage wasn't more extensive.”

Shawn could have said something about how lucky he felt but Belic had barely paused before he resumed speaking.

“The bullet also damaged a portion of your right hemisphere before becoming lodged at the base of your cerebellum. As you know, this is the reason behind your headaches, dizziness, nausea, and loss of fine motor control. The best thing you can do for yourself is to continue working with your physical therapist.”

Joe “Six Pack Abs” Josephson – another one of the hands on breed of healers. Also not a fan of the names “Jo-Jo”, “Joe Banana”, or “Mighty Joe Young”. They'd finally settled on J.J. After a lengthy discussion of appropriate monikers.

“And,” Belic added while Shawn was busy picturing his therapist as a cross between Vin Deisel and Donkey Kong, “I really want to encourage you to start considering some of the disability options I mentioned to you on your last visit.”

Shawn pushed out his upper lip with his tongue. “What, you mean like sign language?”

“Shawn, sign language is for deaf people.”

“What?”

“I said it's for deaf people!”

“What?”

He snickered right up until Gus slugged him in the kneecap. “Dude, really?” Shawn jabbed towards the scent of scalp oil and landed a solid smack to a bicep that had been begging for a Charley horse.

Gus yelped before bouncing back with his own heater to Shawn's thigh. “You really wanna play? Bring it!”

“Boys...” Henry wasn't sounding exceptionally amused but Shawn was man enough... sore enough... to admit he was grateful for the towel throwing that ended the round. His body was still achy from the wild llama that had stampeded him so he was okay with letting Gus have the cheap win.

Besides, his dad had moved between them and Shawn's attempt at punching around him ended with a fatherly grunt when the crushing roundhouse took out his kidney.

“OW-SHAWN!”

Oops again?

“Sorry, dad.”

He didn't expect the chuckle. “Well, it could have been worse. I could have been facing you.”

Why would...?

Oh.

Ooooh...

His face felt red hot for the sixth time that morning. And yet, at the same time, he was having a hell of a time fighting giggles. It didn't matter what anyone said; crotch shots, even implied ones, were _always_ that funny.

Shawn heard soft steps moving away followed by running water and splashing as his gropey doc washed his hands. Would it be too much to ask for him to get the same treatment for his scalp? Gross, he could actually feel the greasy fingerprints trudging across his skin.

“Los Arroyos.”

“Excuse me?”

Beneath his dad's simple plea for clarification, Shawn could hear Gus's approval, “you _know_ that's right...” practically seductive – a dangerous weapon finding no takers in the company of four hetero-inclined males regardless of Shawn's own varied crushes that knew no gender if it involved action heroes, Billy Zane, or British accents.

“On the way here, you asked me where I wanted to go for lunch. Los Arroyos.”

Another sultry moan from Gus led to a two handed gesture in the general direction of his famished buddy. “See? Even Gus wants to go.” Of course Gus wanted to go – _going_ being the whole point. Once the suggestion of Para Los Ninos was on the table the time remaining for poking, prodding, and possibly inserting had been dropped to a limit of seconds.

It took only five seconds to confirm that they were done here. What did Shawn need with eyes when his dad's sigh of capitulation was strong enough to ruffle the baby fine hair struggling to cover his perfectly shaped dome?

“Awesome!” Jumping off the edge of the paper covered exam bed, Shawn knew he'd just missed a collision with something that may have hurt when Gus hissed and his father snatched out to wrap both hands around his biceps.

“Jesus, kid...”

“Here, I should have moved that...” The doc brushed past them as he spoke, and then Shawn heard something heavy dragging towards the corner of the room.

Spreading a smile and hoping his cheeks weren't twitching, Shawn eased out of the tight grip and slapped a hand on his father's back.

“I'm driving!”

0o0o0

He'd been waiting to speak to his lawyer for about forty minutes. The drive from the city wouldn't normally take so long, but his court appointed council hadn't made an effort to hide his feelings about his client. Anything the condemned man had to say would be pointless. He had been convicted well before the start of the trial. But that was okay. He'd accepted this outcome long before he'd even met his partner.

He'd been fifteen years old the first time someone had put a weapon in his hands. An M16; standard issue for GIs after the M14s had been taken out of circulation in the mid-sixties. He'd been too young – should never have made it in. But greed for fresh troops in that latter days of the war meant a starry eyed kid from Chicago, juiced up on a romantic notion of battle and no parents to tell him otherwise, had little trouble enlisting. There were more casualties than the dead in those years.

The first time he'd killed, he'd been one week into his sixteenth year. The enemy, the boy, had been lucky if he'd seen twelve years old. Afterward, there'd barely been time to wipe the vomit from his mouth before he'd been forced to fire again. And again. And again.

By the time he'd turned eighteen, he'd no longer thought about the faces he'd seen in his sights. He'd actually felt a thrill when the conditions were just right – when the air was still. An exhale of breath, tighten his finger down in smooth increments...

“ _Hey, I know you! You're Garth Longmore!”_

His intent had been to kill. From pulling his weapon to the squeezing of the trigger. He'd never experienced much for flashbacks since his discharge, but in that moment he'd smelled rotting vegetation – had felt the downpour soaking through his uniform.

Gunpowder, sharp and hot-sweet. The boy had been on the ground, then. He'd been alive.

He wasn't a soldier any longer. He had a choice whether or not to kill.

He'd been given a second chance.

A second chance.

The man who had been his partner had never killed before. His parents were still alive and the only war he'd seen had been in movies on television. He'd never known the weight of mass murder. But now... now he knew the guilt of trying to take a life. The last conversation the two men had had together, Rollins had admitted that he never should have done what he had. He'd been panicked and had said that the reason he'd chosen to shoot the kid had been to protect his partner. He'd said that with remorse so heavy his voice had shook. One mistake and it would destroy the rest of his life.

Metal on metal turned his eyes to the bars of the holding cell. His lawyer was there; a thick boned man with too much weight on his frame. The ring on his finger still rested again one of the bars.

“You wanted to meet with me?”

MacQuarrie stood from his bunk, his arms hanging down at his sides.

He knew he was never getting out, but he'd made his peace with that. He'd committed atrocities with the blessing of his superiors. But the sin had still been his own. Paying for that with his freedom was just and fair but it was only part of what was due. He had another debt as well.

Now it was time to pay them both.

End Notes:

___________

I hope you all know how deeply I adore you!!! 

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	6. Crawl Back in Bed, It Isn't Morning Yet

He was staring at the ceiling. Well that was his first mental lie of the day because staring implied sight and sight implied seeing and Shawn wasn't seeing anything but the same black movie screen that he'd been watching for almost a three weeks.

He hated being alone. Like, really hated it. Hated when he couldn't hear the sound of breathing nearby or the soft brush of feet against the floor. Even his dad and that disturbing hovering habit would be okay.

To hear nothing... see nothing...

It didn't work, anymore, to pretend he was sitting in a room with the lights off. Even with the lights off at night there was always something – nightlight or digital clocks or even the neighbors porch light. Just a glow. Any glow. Anything. He'd never really been afraid of the dark but now he couldn't stop those fears from nestling in his chest.

He craved the familiar sounds because it was the ones he didn't know that made his skin crawl. Leaves scraping down the roof tiles were monsters he'd never quite tucked away from his childhood. 3D made imagining these horrors so much easier now, as if his own mind wasn't up to the task of forming tried and true like blade laden fingers or the new and improved shadow specters spinning webs from the ceiling and groaning through the floorboards. How could he believe that ghosts weren't real when he could hear them all around him?

The doorknob squeaked and his feet whipped to the floor. Fight and flight clashed and left him frozen, the _knowing_ no competition for the _could be_ on the other side of the door.

Knowing didn't mean shit if the could be turned out to be Michael Meyers.

The jiggle became a short creak of hinges, ending with a hard, rattling smack of the door slamming against the wall – no time for screaming as the hard breaths of his father preceded his footsteps first entering, then pausing as the door was kicked shut again. Hands were full and from the rattle of heavy paper he had at least two bags of groceries.

“Wow, dad, you actually have a list or did you just sweep the shelves as you walked down the aisle?” Did his voice squeak? He hoped his voice hadn't squeaked...

“That's funny, Shawn. I seemed to remember that the reason I had to go to store in the first place was because you complained about every food item in the house.”

“Not _every_ item...”

“You don't like two percent milk because you claim it tastes like sweaty gym socks. You refuse to eat the bread because the seeds get stuck in your teeth. You don't like any cheese that isn't imported and aged at least a year. You think baby dill pickles are offensive to your masculinity. Do I need to involve your comments about the canned tuna or can I put the groceries away now?”

“You know how I feel about albacore in fresh spring water.” Seriously, who even bought regular tuna outside of feline enthusiasts? Unless Henry had a secret herd of strays he was renting out the garage to there was no reason for slipping standards.

Actually, he hoped the place hadn't become a haven for the flea-ridden because the last thing he needed to have waking him up at three a.m. would be the romantic yowls of cat lovers boning on the roof.

Steps came his way and he pushed himself up a bit, wincing at the pressure of using one hand.

“Here.”

Plastic crinkle and a shoosh of air and a small weight dropped into his lap. Anticipated but it still caused a tiny jerk – his hand feeling across the smooth wrapper to identify a bag that either contained M&Ms or Skittles. Or possibly Reece's Pieces. He shook the bag before bringing it to his nose. Spree candy – not on his mental list but it would have been, his mouth watering at the fruity blast that seeped through the plastic.

“Thanks!” Of course the thanks became a grunt when his single hand couldn't breach the three levels of security clearance required to access the chewy treats. Knuckles brushed his own as the bag was tugged away – a plasticy rip and a burst of tangy sweetness flooding his nose as the opened bag was settled back into his paws. He was careful to keep the open end up as he fished out a handful of candy. The tartness made his eyes squint but it was a good tartness – a roar of flavor he'd not experienced a whole lot since his release from medicated jail.

Speaking of medicine.

“Hey, what time is it?”

His dad's voice carried from a slight distance – muffled. Probably had his head in a cabinet. “Three-thirty. You have another half hour before you need your pills.”

So said the guy without the throbbing temples. Not just his head, his whole body was stiffening again after sitting for so long. But standing wasn't any better – walking a joke even with his four footed walking stick. He was supposed to be doing daily exercises, and he was, but only when Abby was there to help. Physical therapy with the potential of leading to a personal massage – that he could do. Embarrassing invasion of personal space by his overprotective and critical parent? Never going to happen. Not even with the threat of permanent disability.

Couldn't get more permanent than it already was.

“Well how about a-” Cold, wet cloth pushed into his free hand. He hadn't even heard the old man creep up on him and he'd be damned if he let him know how much that had startled him – covering the little girl shriek with a high pitched cough. His thanks was more mumbled this time as he pressed it against his forehead. He heard the steps retreat, wondering how he'd missed the camel clomp of sneakers thudding, first on wood, and then on the carpet in the hall. Rustling resumed as groceries were dispersed throughout the kitchen. Shawn snacked on his fruit treats and idly wiggled his sock covered toes.

He felt like an idiot – a child shivering under the blankets at the tree branches clicking his window. The moment he'd heard his father moving about – natural, known sounds – he'd actually begun to feel sleepy. It was hard to sleep when his ears were in a steady search for sounds. For threats.

How could he be convinced the nightmare was over when he couldn't open his eyes and see the safety of his own room?

His jaw was starting to ache from chewing – no surprise as he'd been shoveling the chewy snacks in his maw one after the other. It was only the hot ripple in his belly, creeping up his chest so much like the first threatening tremor of a magma driven eruption, that dropped the bag from his fingers. Multiple plap, plap, plaps of scattered soft candy as his right leg swept to the floor.

“Dad...” Lips clamped, acid coughing up into his throat. Whistling from the other room now, Shawn hadn't even known his father knew who Radiohead was, much less had a rough grasp of their music. The off tune reinterpretation of Karma Police added just the right ambiance to the full body spill to the floor as Shawn made one heroic lunge towards the first floor bathroom – and smashed his ribs against the coffee table he'd forgotten was there.

His father's startled yell came about the same time as the Dante's Peak event he'd been hoping to outrun. All those poor villagers – they never stood a chance.

He'd become very skilled at puking his guts out in the last few weeks. Maybe not something to brag about. That's what Gus had hissed at him in a sorta wet spray when he'd expounded on his prowess slung over a toilet seat to anyone in earshot. Granted, it may have been for phrasing it that way. Gus was always so particular about _how_ his best friend embarrassed him in public.

While never his favorite activity, he was sorry to have missed the technicolored waterfall his father was currently enjoying. His own mind painted a scene with brilliant reds and greens, sapphire blues and orangey yellows, grapeity purples... Not quite so much Rainbow Brite, it felt more like the county fair scene in Stand By Me.

He knew the table had saved him from face planting in his Crayola hued masterpiece and for that he was willing to overlook the new bruise to his midsection. He'd avoided hitting his head which meant he'd also avoided another ER visit. He was glad of this because a crazy crowded hallway packed with screaming dying masses was grand mal overload for his newer, flinchier self.

“Just let it happen. It's almost over...”

The pom pom thing had never fit his father – far more inclined to instruct him on his aim, even while blindfolded. Insert ironic laugh. And yet, the old man was going for the soft pitch instead.

Another full body lurch, shoulders hitching forward around the choked gag, dribble of acid joining the rest of the slaughter. Drowning calf sounds as he went against his father's advice and tried to call the game before realizing they were going into extra innings. How many of those damn things had he eaten anyhow?

Ans on and on the gentle rub of a firm palm on his back, working circles into his muscles as he strained out another yack of bitterness. He wanted to slump over his shaking arms – gut, rock tight and drawn up into his chest, every convulsion making it harder to stop, slippery slope that forced tears of pained effort down his cheeks. Healing bruises ached afresh, throbbing down his spine and tailbone where rocks had dug craters in his flesh. His knees ached from kneeling, his chest from the pressure of lying across the table. He was ready to give up when finally, finally, the helpless urge began to fade – swallows and breaths and a frantic whine melting together as his dad helped him to sit up, and then lean back against the base of the couch.

“I'll be right back. I'm just going to grab you some water.”

Shawn nodded, holding apology for when his dad returned.

Though not the worse part of an up chuck party – that belonging to the event itself – the after party, stale mouth flavors while waiting for a bottle of Scope and handful of Aspirin, rated up there as a very close second. Setting one hand to the floor for balance, something he lost frequently these days even when sitting, he felt the rubbery squishiness of a fruit snack under his palm. Though the catalyst to his recent purging, he didn't hesitate to stick the soft sweetness between his teeth to replace that sour bile flavor with _anything_ else. He immediately began searching for more.

He'd recovered three, two lime and an orange, before his father's steps brought the old man back in time to bat the fourth snack from his fingers.

“Here, swish out your mouth and quit eating those damn things before you puke again.”

“And then what, spit it on the floor? Not that it isn't already...” His dad took his fingers and guided them to a small bucket. “Oh.”

He swished and spit as instructed, then lounged back with the water bottle as his dad took the bucket back to the kitchen and returned with something that stank like fake lemons. Better than something that stank like vomit though, he supposed.

“Sorry...” His fingers tapped the plastic lip of the bottle, his head tilting as he followed the sounds of scrubbing – the snap of joints – the small grunts as Henry knelt to clean the floor.

“Not your fault, kid.”

Well true... though he could have eased up on the chow down – could have moved faster towards the bathroom...

No, dad was right. It wasn't his fault.

It was his dad's fault. After all, his father was the one who'd bought him the candy and he was also the one who'd insisted on keeping the four hundred pound coffee table at a perfect tripping angle. He was also the one withholding medication that controlled both the nausea as well as the drilling migraine – tied to some archaic script that set limits on dosage as well as a timetable for when said dosage could slip and slide down his gullet and stop the torture for another five hours.

Sitting on the floor had stopped being fun about three seconds into his knees first touching down, so Shawn tapped reached the bottle forward until he felt it touch the table – scooting it forward several inches to make sure it wouldn't topple off again. Then he swung his arm backward and gripped a couch cushion, glad when his father gave him the extra leverage to actually get his butt off the floorboards.

While he was still twitching around so that the least amount of bruised area was under pressure, his dad grabbed his water bottle and pressed it into his hand. And then he was abandoned when the phone rang.

Settled as well as he could be, Shawn now found himself stuck with a new problem. While he couldn't watch television he could still listen to it and he needed to extract the remote from wherever it was hiding. Which meant putting down his water. Which meant leaning half off the couch to set it on the floor. Which meant either risking a smashed nose or an encore performance from ten minutes ago.

“ _Henry...”_

There wasn't a lot of water left, maybe he should just chug it...

“ _What can I do for you, Detective?”_

Safe money was on Juliet; Lassie hadn't been given to status calls past the first week and those had been to find out how the whole memory thing was coming along. Not one to accept a no answer he'd bulldogged until ole' dad had pilfered the phone and laid into the man.

“ _Shawn's okay... no. No, not yet.”_

Same questions. Same answers. TV had lost its attraction in the last few minutes, sleepiness replacing the desire for entertainment. Even without his medication he had a hard time staying awake for any length of time. It was the dark.

“ _What are you trying to say?”_

His father's half of the phone conversation became abruptly tense, the silence afterward spreading through the whole house. Floorboards creaked as Henry walked through the kitchen – too slow to be anything other than pacing.

Shawn pushed up a little more – his hand accidentally pressing down on the remote – the blast of sound as the TV flipped on making him jump and swallowing whatever else his father was saying.

“Dammit...” Digging the thing out from under his leg, he fumbled with one hand until he could get it facing the right way, feeling his way towards the power button at the top and breathing out at the sudden silence.

“ _No, I'll tell him. Thank you, Juliet.”_

Well that confirmed the caller anyhow. But not the topic of their chat. And the soft curse after his father said his goodbyes only raised the hairs on Shawn's neck.

“Dad?”

Not an immediate answer, only the shift of feet on wood. Shawn tilted his head, what Gus had begun referring to as swiveling his antenna, while listening for any sort of response. Finally he heard a long breath and then his dad moved across the kitchen. Not, Shawn frowned, back into the living room.

The refrigerator door opened with the sound of bottles clinking together. A scrape of something being removed from a glass shelf and the fridge door shut again with a soft WHUMF. Feet walking back across the floor. Now the clatter of the dish washer door and the bump of plastic. By the time he heard the clunky splash he'd put together that his dad was pouring a glass of iced tea laden with cubes. At least he hadn't gone for alcohol.

Sounds repeated themselves in reverse as the pitcher of tea was returned to the fridge and then he finally heard the steps carrying themselves back towards the couch.

The cushion dipped as his dad settled beside him. Lighter clinks as he took several swallows of tea followed by a clunk as the glass was set on the coffee table.

“That was-”

“-Jules. I know.” Shawn tapped his ears though he had no idea if his father was looking at him.

Another gentle shift of the cushion. Dad wasn't known for being twitchy so it set off the early warning system that he seemed to be jumping out of his skin.

“Holy crap, Chief Vick is preggers!”

He felt the whole couch jerk with his father at the sudden shout.

“What? No – Shawn...”

“Lassie grew a ZZ Top beard-”

“Shawn...”

“Gus streaked the station!”

“Shawn- Shawn!” Firm hand wrapped around his arm and demanded his scrawling attention – diversion – whatever it was he'd been attempting to lighten the tension and rid the room of the weight that seemed so much heavier without the ability to focus on visuals.

A few seconds that passed with a sigh and another shift. He noticed that his father hadn't released his arm yet.

“Detective O'Hara wanted to know how you're doing.” The hand squeezed briefly before letting go. Shawn frowned towards the direction of his father's voice, recalling what he'd heard of the conversation.

“No, she wanted to know if I'd remembered anything.”

The couch moved as his father leaned forward – glass making a small sound as he lifted it from the table for another sip, and then leaned back again.

“Do you?”

The anger was hot, fast, and burned off his tongue like acid.

“You think I haven't been trying to every damn day!?”

He felt the tremor in his body as he thrust out his hand, luck or instinct shoving away the hand his father had been reaching towards him.

“Shawn, I know it's hard...”

“Let me guess, you want me to close my eyes, right?” The anger was worsening, a shifting sickness of fear, frustration, and a giant surge at the injustice – the unfairness of it all.

“I can't remember! I hear – bits... and pieces of things and none of it makes sense! All I remember is that one minute I'm talking to Gus in the car and the next I'm waking up blind... the last thing I remember seeing is...” He chuffed, the outburst draining out into an exhausted laugh. “I remember a peace sign.”

He picked at his sling, finding a loose thread to toy with.

“A peace sign?”

He sniffed, rubbing his nose. “Yeah.”

His father hummed and Shawn could imagine his head nodding.

“What color was the sign?”

Shawn knew this sort of interrogation and it pissed him off. Still, his quota for furious squalling had been met so he let it pass and shrugged the shoulder that wasn't on fire. “I dunno... yellow? It was getting dark but...”

_Blast of chilled air, roaring tires, hurt, hurt, hurt, have to move – move now!_

“It... it was getting dark...” When he'd been driving with Gus, it had been the middle of the day. He pushed – like every memory that had seeped up from the molasses in his head. He actually did close his eyes, squeezing them tight, fingertips almost burrowing into his skull to physically drag the slipping vision back. He let out a gasp – it was sooo close!

And then it skittered away.

He yelled, sharp, as it was lost again.

Black, black, black, everything was black. And not the good black like dark chocolate and Gus and the chicken at Kingstons.

He wanted to see. He was desperate to see and the never ending dark was like claustrophobia – tight, cramped panic in the back of his throat that was getting harder and harder to bury. He sniffed again and wrapped his hand around the back of his head – hating the prickly feel of barely there hair. He would not cry. Not in private and sure as hell not in front of his father.

It was close but a few shaky breaths were starting to help bring him out of a place that was as unfamiliar to him as Juliet's bedroom.

Okay, maybe not a comparison he should have made and not just because those two places were as far removed as Gus was from a date with Nikki Flores.

His father's hand pressed against his knee and he let it rest there without slapping him away this time. There was still enough filtered anger that would have let him feel satisfaction by the act, but there was a greater part of him that just wanted to get over the nauseating emotional upchuck.

He was quite tired of vomit in all its forms.

One last sniffle and he felt around for the bottle he'd lost track of some time ago.

“Here.” Familiar feel of his hand guided and the plastic was wrapped in his fingers.

“Thanks.” Rusty response was liquified and he swallowed until the water was gone, letting his dad take the empty bottle again.

Now he wished his father would leave. This was why they didn't do emotions. Nothing good ever came from a blow out. Especially now when storming out had been removed from the table. Leftover outrage and creeping embarrassment mixed about as well as hot sauce and tequila and had the same effect on his gut. Acid reflux was the bitch slap he didn't need punctuating the evening.

“Look, Shawn...”

Here goes. Whatever Henry had to say it was guaranteed to make everything worse. The man wasn't gifted with subtlety or tact and Shawn was embarrassed enough without the apology dressed as hemming and hawing and something about the circle of life.

“Dad...” - “There was another reason Detective O'Hara called.”

So apology was shelved for later. But that didn't matter now with the return of stomach moths fluttering up and down his diaphragm. He said nothing – waiting for his father to continue. When he did, it was bandage ripping fast.

“John Rollins is being released from prison tomorrow. His partner, MacQuarrie, is taking the fall for the whole thing.”

Shawn forced his hand to his side to hide the tremble. Rollins. One half of the team responsible for kidnapping him. Shooting him. Leaving him for dead. Lassie had interrogated both men and had been certain Rollins was the mastermind – MacQuarrie's Rubik's cube not exactly colored on all sides.

And Shawn understood, then, why Juliet had wanted to know if his memory had come back.

Because without his version of events, they couldn't stop this from happening.

And in twenty four hours, the man that had attempted to murder him... would walk free.

End Notes:

I will try like everything to update much sooner this next time!

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	7. Squishy Stuff in the Middle

Lassiter wasn't a worshipper of Karma – working in any facet of the cops and robbers gig wiped out most mystical sentiments about ill deeds earning their due. There was no such bunk about “what goes around comes around”. The real truth was that shit happened to everyone whether they were good, bad, or saints.

He pulled up his sleeve for another time check. Only twenty minutes – God it felt like two hours. Surveillance was on the lower rung of police procedure, only a step above courtroom testifying, this one even worse because the perp, oily haired lowlife pond scum, was viewed by the justice system as an innocent man.

There was no way this waste was innocent! Lassiter had sat across from him in interrogation for eight hours. Though he'd never admitted to anything, the smile had never left his face. The smile had widened when O'Hara had entered the room, giving Lassiter his one excuse to “accidentally” upend the chair Rollins had been tipping back in – dropping the leer from face just as quickly. Too bad the bastard hadn't cracked his skull on the concrete.

He looked at his watch again. Rollins had been in the pawn shop for nearly forty five minutes. This was after a stop at a greasy spoon and the nearest porn peddler to the gut rot shop.

Finally the door pushed open again, Rollins toting a small box in his hands. Lassiter sat up straight. Son of a bitch! His hand wrapped the door handle and he'd managed to get one foot to the pavement before common sense returned. The state of California had deemed the man innocent. Aside from some sealed juvvie records, there was nothing in his history to prevent him from walking where he wanted or buying what he wanted. Even if what he bought was a weapon.

He knew where Rollins was staying – some cockroach infested motel on State street. Much as he wanted to follow him, he had some information gathering to do first.

A fake nose, even something a touch more casual than his suit, wouldn't have been amiss. Pawn shop owners weren't known for their inherent love of cops in Lassiter's experience. Right up there with weapons peddlers and smut sellers. Not that Lassiter had any problem flashing his badge to the fringe element just to remind them of where they stood in society. His partner had been reminding him about winning flies with honey but she wasn't there and honey was in short supply.

Two cowbells hanging over the door didn't allow for stealthy entry, not that he'd been trying for it. The musty blend of cracked, dusty leather and gun oil was a haphazard aroma overlaying the subtler scents of rat poison and mothballs. It reminded him of his aunt Ruth's apartment sans the sharper tang of cat piss.

About as cluttered too as far as that went.

“Help you?”

The beefy guy looming over the plexiglas counter across from the door didn't look like he was a man who stood behind that opening question. The only help he appeared to want to offer would be the kind involving a trip to the ER.

Lassiter had his shield up and out while his eyes tracked the two other patrons wandering the aisles. “Head detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD. The man that was just in here. What did he buy?”

0o0o0

Abby was eating dinner with them again. She hadn't stopped by in several days, nor had Shawn begged her to, uncomfortable enough without both her and his father sharing space. Unlike Gus, she never unequivocally took his side against his dad. Okay, so Gus didn't always either but at least he had the decency to be apologetic about it.

Right now she was in the kitchen with his father, pots clanking and things spitting in oil while the smells from their attempts filled the house. Beside him, sharing the couch, the TV, and the rest of his Spree was Gus. Shawn had only had to tolerate one hand slap, followed by rapid apology, when he'd gone for his own handful of the fruit treat. That, too, he had begun to hate. He was blind, not made of saltwater taffy! Gus should be able to smack him whenever he wanted and not think he was about to snap a rib!

And he really didn't want to delve into the wrongness of that whole thought.

His fingers dug into the wealth of five o'clock shadow gone to seed, aka “hobo beard” as dubbed by Mr. Freeze with the sweet fade skullcap. Abandoning even the casual shaving in favor of a far looser grooming style had been an easy choice – not even his trust in Abby extended to the perfected length requirements of his stubble – his only regret was the persistent itch of wiry hair on his chin. Still, it was a look he'd been certain was on the forefront of style. And he needed some balance to his butchered scalp anyhow.

Of course, Gus had had his own way of showing support for the sudden hair loss. “Dude, you look like John Malkovich.”

Shawn had been thinking something more Billy Zanian but without a reflection to scrutinize he'd been forced to take his buddy's word for it.

“Sweetheart, you want something to drink?” Abby's stockinged feet patted into the room, followed by the flowery smell of her perfume. Shawn rubbed his nose to fight off a sneeze.

“Sure, that'd be- be- _CHOO_! Ugh...” Snuffling at the slight burn, he was about to use his sleeve when a tissue intercepted the play. “Thanks.”

“Allergies bothering you again?” Abby squeezed beside him, forcing Gus to slide hop a few inches left given the way the couch bounced.

Shawn blew his nose, hoping he was subtle about the extra scrub he gave through his lip-a-pillar (thank you, Gus), before relinquishing the tissue to Abby. “Just dust – maybe the chicken dad is obviously trying to turn into a briquette.”

“Shawn, your dad isn't cooking chicken, that's pork... oh gosh!” Abby jumped up again, her feet now thudding as she hurried back to the kitchen. “Mr. Spencer!”

More sounds of pans and then the _shiish_ of water hitting a too hot surface.

“I think they burned the chicken.” Shawn snagged another mouthful of candy. Beside him, Gus reclaimed his lost spot on the couch.

“What did I say? Too many cooks in the kitchen.”

“You did say that.” They both stopped talking at the sound of cheering coming from the television. Football, at least, could be almost as good even without the pictures. Seconds later, more hurried steps as Henry jogged into the room.

“Who scored?”

“Denver.” Shawn said as he tried to readjust the way his body had been slumping down on the couch. He grunted at the pull in his shoulder but was able to sit up a bit straighter without begging for help or being offered the same without asking.

Gus tsked – as if he had money on the game or something. Gus's mother, on the other hand... But no, Mrs. G had promised the gambling thing was over and done.

“Come on, Tebow...” Dad now adding to the noise – equal parts urging and disparaging, though more of the latter as another thunder of blended boos and catcalls from the crowd were enough of a hint to divine the results of that last play.

“Hey dad, didn't you bet old Pete McMillan Fifty bucks against a case of his private label that...”

“Dinner's ready!” Dad hadn't been in the kitchen for the past ten minutes but who was Shawn to question whether or not the statement was true? Not that he didn't hold his fist out for the pass and immediately get a quarterblack sneak in return. Obviously dad had seen their less than stealthy fist bump given the “humph” sent their way.

Allowed to stand by himself, Shawn didn't argue the tickle touch of fingertips along his sling hampered arm. As long as dad didn't get creative with the layout he could find his way to the kitchen, no sweat. However, he didn't mind the extra insurance against bashing his shoulder on a poorly placed door frame.

Abby took over caretaker duty once he was seated at the table. Setting the plate in front of him with a soft clunk of his dad's good stoneware against the tablecloth, she took his hand and rested it against the curved edge.

“Mixed veggies are at three o'clock, meat is at six, and parsnips are at twelve.”

He held off on the joke this time – _can't I just eat it all now?_ – it really hadn't been that funny the first time anyhow and repetition had stolen what little humor it had had.

Instead, he felt around for his fork and carefully stabbed the first pre-sliced cube of pork chop.

In spite of the Backdraft moment earlier, it didn't taste burnt. Abby must have rescued most of the chops before they could reach the charcoal stage. It was actually really good. Maybe just a bit tough but dad was no Bobby Flay so it wasn't like he was expecting to be fed poached quail or something.

He stabbed another bite, forking some veggies to be polite, knowing Abs would lecture him if he tried to skip it. Around him, the other three were going back and forth on subjects – dad having growled through his opinions of the game right up until he'd started eating, his topic of choice then switching to Abby's skill in the kitchen. Shawn mostly tuned it out – more interested in pondering what sort of dessert they had in the oven. Either peach cobbler or chocolate cake and no, Shawn would never claim to be as fine tuned in the smelling arts as Gus.

“...know it's a little spicy but I hope you think...”

“...think these boys could _-cough-_ use something with more _-cough-_ culture than Taco Bell...”

Blah, blah, blah.

Shawn stabbed towards noon, imbedding the tines into his next bite.

Gus coughed next, nudging Shawn as he must have reached for his glass. “ _Kuk_... ugh... where did _-cough-_ you say you bought...?”

Shawn bit down.

There was a second of confusion as taste buds primed for pan fried pork tried to fit a square peg in a round hole. _The texture was right but the flavor was definitely off, but that's what had been on his plate..._ and then his throat closed as heat exploded across his sinuses. Violent hacking ejected the foreign food item – _not just pork, definitely not just pork_ – and he batted out his hand in a wild grasp for anything cold and liquid. His fingertips grazed his glass hard enough to rock it towards tipping. However, there was no shatter – a mystery solved when he felt Abigail grab his hand and press the smooth glass into his palm.

Gulping down water in three swallows, he gasped and patted around the table for more as the heat only spread down his throat – carried by the water that hadn't quenched anything – but only started new fires across all his tissues. His nose began running next and sweat slid down his temples.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” He couldn't stop coughing as Abby apologized. Somewhere distant, he could hear the other two diners also hacking out their organs. Seconds later, the soothing fingers were gone and he was left to whimper and sniffle and hope that the vicious torture would force him to pass out very soon.

“Here.” He'd been too busy hacking to hear Abby's return but his hand reached out for whatever she had. But instead of handing it to him, he felt her hand cup his jaw and the metal edge of a spoon push against his lips. Cold puffed over his mouth and he opened up for that tiny hint of rescue. Neapolitan ice cream melted on his tongue and he groaned at the coolness – spreading it around and swallowing before opening his mouth for the next bite, and the next. He didn't care that she was feeding him like a baby – all his attention was wrapped up in the frosty healing melting on his tongue. Glorious, glorious ice cream, he'd scream for it if she tried to take it away. He might even cry just a little.

The coughing of the other two had died down now as well and Shawn's single thought in that regard was that they'd better not have found comfort in his tri-colored stash. He planned to eat the entire box in spite of the searing pain dying to cool embers.

His hand rested over Abby's, keeping the last spoonful between his teeth as he sucked at the melting sweetness. The burn on his tongue had faded to a mild simmer now, and he rubbed his thumb over Abby's knuckles, hoping she understood that he didn't blame her.

Uncomfortable and overly obvious throat clearing from Gus helped jog his memory that he wasn't sitting alone with her in his bedroom. He planned to be a little bit later but leaving the table right that moment would probably be make the whole uncomfortable thing a lot worse. Besides, he was still hungry in spite of the half gallon of ice cream nestled in his belly.

“How about I fix you a peanut butter sandwich?”

Shawn grinned. “With marshmallow fluff?”

Behind him, Gus made a soft whimper. “You know that's right.”

A squeeze on his arm and Abby returned to the kitchen. Shawn could hear his father's heavier step as he followed her, the clink of bottles preceding his return with beer for the four of them. A few minutes later, Abby returned as well. Setting down his plate, she moved his hand to the soft bread before allowing him to eat on his own.

He may just edge himself into a pre-diabetic state after such a sugary dinner but he couldn't quite care about that as he crammed down the sandwich – fingers already tapping around for the second one he knew was there.

The four of them ate the rest of their meal without incident, Abby hesitating about bringing out dessert until Gus made a few more whimpers.

Shawn decided that chocolate chip cookies, no chilies this time – Abs had promised, tasted awesome no matter how much sweetness he'd ingested so far.

Only one thing could make this more fabulous.

A milkshake.

Okay, a bendy straw would be nice too.

0o0o0

Greg had spoken to the cop five minutes after Rollins had left. One of the few on the outside that he could trust to watch his back. He'd have loved to hang around to see Mr. big bad Head Detective get the threatening news that he'd bought a semi automatic wrist watch. Which he had, Greg hadn't had to lie about that. Greg kept security cameras in his shop and there was too great a risk of the cops getting creative about seeing the footage. But Rollins didn't feel it worth the risk that Lassiter would let him out of his sight without searching the purchase on some fabricated excuse that he suspected a drug transaction. Greg had been out of that business for a while but once on his record, the cops had felt justified in leaning on him now and then if they thought he was backsliding.

Once back at his apartment, Rollins pitched the watch, prying open the bottom of the box it had been sold in.

Inside was a wad of hundreds, a small vial of white powder, and .25mm barely the size of his hand. The angel dust was flushed – Greg was an idiot but he meant well. The gun he tucked in his jeans. He'd checked the chamber and found it loaded.

He had prospects in New Mexico. California had lost its shine and he was ready for new scenery anyhow.

But there was one, niggling little thing he had to deal with before he packed his trunk and hit the highway. One little detail he needed to square away.

Lying back on his bed, Rollins stared at the ceiling.

After a few moments, he smiled.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	8. Day One Million. I'm Still Down Here, God

_

Water beads drizzled, unimpeded, off the back of his scalp. His shoulder ached without a sling to support his arm. He held it crooked across his chest as he felt around for the tap, ending the spray and wiping off his face before grabbing the metal rim of the shower door and carefully stepping out.

He used his feet to test the placement of the rug, not needing another slip on wet tile. Letting go of the shower once he was stable, he bent forward until he could get his hand on the sink and inch his way on still shaky legs to the towel folded nearby. Turning to brace his lower back against the sink, he one-handed scrubbed the wet from his body before wrapping the damp towel around his waist and slide stepped, arm waving before him, towards the door.

He dressed in he bedroom, making sure to run his hand down his chest to check that the buttons were on the front and not the back. Several times now he'd put his clothes on backward or inside out and it was always embarrassing to have either his father, Gus, or Abby notice his wardrobe malfunctions.

With the tags torn out of his t-shirt he had no idea if it was on right, though Abby had offered to sew a button on the inside seam to help him out. He'd brushed it off earlier but didn't quite know why. But with the button up shirt over the top he supposed it didn't really matter. Of course, he had no idea if the shirts clashed or not...

Maybe just the t-shirt then...

But then he was back to the original problem.

He couldn't care less if his shirts actually matched, but he hated the thought that he was being pitied for it. Poor blind man can't even dress himself. Poor blind man can't cross the street without someone holding his hand. Poor blind man can't eat without stabbing his lip with his fork.

Buttoning his shirt right up to the collar, he reached for his sling. It wasn't there. He was positive he'd left it on his pillow but now the soft velvet he'd been expecting to feel was gone. Pulling his legs up on the mattress, he felt across both pillows, slipped his hand beneath them, and even felt along the top edge were his bed met the wall. Nothing. Irritated now, he moved his investigation back to the main part of the bed, swearing with growing frequency and volume when his luck remained just as dismal.

If he could see... He squashed that thought and moved back to the pillows, first feeling across them and then flipping them off the bed completely in anger – ignoring the clatter of something toppling. He knew his temper loss wasn't helping but frustration had been short fused and swallowed too many times to hold back any longer.

“DAMN IT!” The shout felt good but the sling didn't magically whisk into his hand and the following seconds started a throb in his temples. Next to go off the bed was his blanket, though it bunched around his legs and he had to kick at it for some moments before dropping down on the center of his stripped mattress. When he rubbed his forehead it was warm and sweaty.

“Shawn?”

Crap. No way dad couldn't have heard his tantrum even if he'd been outside mowing the lawn. Shawn scooted back and let his head rest against the wall. Too much activity and his body was paying for it. His heart pounded and even that pissed him off. He was so tired of being tired.

He heard the floor creak as his father stepped into the room. Shuffling – soft – must be in his socks. Probably the ones with the holes in the heel. A grunt and joint snap as his father bent.

“Here.”

Shawn reached out after a second, his hand moving back and forth until something soft pressed into it. He felt his cheeks heat up and he barely managed to mutter out gratitude.

“You want some help...”

“I got it.”

He was tired of help.

Everybody wanted to help, no matter how simple the task was. He was sick of the attention – not the fun kind that he normally sought out but the kind that left him feeling useless and weirdly ashamed. His father had been going for the win as worst offender – constantly fussing like a momma chicken over her wayward brood. It was against the typical grain and it had bypassed unsettling in a way that made Shawn wish for a little aggravated yelling to balance things out. The only one worse was Abby, especially this last week. She was just so... clingy.

His blindness was the big purple monkey in the room that everyone either wanted to talk about or ignore completely. He preferred the latter though, having discussed it so many times with so many people he wanted to body check the next person who brought it up. The next person to start off a sentence with “How are you feeling?”

Not that he knew what to offer as an alternative topic. He just couldn't stand the constant fretting. He didn't have to see to feel it humming around him – worry wasps that hovered over his skin, vibrating at a frequency that made his teeth ache.

His father, another vibrating hovering creature, hadn't moved since passing him his sling. Shawn huffed as he worked the contraption back on, chewing his tongue and tightening his eyes as he wrestled his arm through the opening and got it settled on his shoulder. No doubt that pops had been just waiting for the chance to take over if the operation had been in danger of failing.

“Hand me my socks?” No way had they survived the destructive moment and he wasn't in the mood for another search.

Rather than go for the easy find in the dresser, his dad walked first towards the door, and then across the room to the closet. When he came back, not only did he have the wayward socks but the pillows and blankets too, which he slid behind Shawn's back before creaking back towards the door.

“Abigail called. She's coming over in about twenty minutes.”

Shawn had one sock halfway worked over his toes. Turning his head to the comment he thought through what to say, but only nodded instead. Abby hadn't been over to see him since three nights ago when she'd played Backdraft with their dinner. Not that she didn't call every day – he was right about her being clingy, she just wasn't present.

Getting the second sock on, Shawn scooted to the edge of the bed and dropped his feet down. Feeling out the surface, he came across his dad's old man slippers. He wasn't sure whether to be grateful or irritated by the overprotectiveness but he still pushed his feet into them – accepting that the rubber soles were better traction than the cotton of his socks.

The walk down the stairs, as always, took some time, though he was grateful that if he had to have an arm in a sling, it wasn't the one needed to brace against the wall since there was a fairly deadly opening into the kitchen on the other side.

His father handed him the metal cane when he reached the ground floor and he didn't bother arguing this time. Thumping towards the living room, he used both the clunky cane and his left foot to feel for obstacles. The doctor had promised a slenderer cane once the bruises on his legs healed some more. Not that he wasn't still hinting for a seeing-eye mastiff. And once he got his sight back he could rock the whole Turner and Hooch vibe. Without the whole dog dying at the end of the movie of course.

It struck him that he didn't know what day it was. But then, he often didn't know what month it was so that wasn't too shocking. Not knowing what _time_ of day it was, as in day or night, was more difficult to get used to. So far his best guide was standing by the window to feel the heat from the sun. Not that it always worked – rainstorms threw that off a bit.

Finding the back door was uneventful and he barely noted his father saying lunch was nearly ready as he stepped out to the deck and hung a right towards the far railing. He listened to the clomp of his feet against the worn wood, and then tipped his face up at the breeze that slicked cool across his eyelids.

Forgetting to pay attention, he tangled up the base of the cane with something on the deck and hopped wildly to catch his balance, free arm releasing the cane to shoot out and crack against the outer wall. Knuckles scraped but he was able to keep on his feet, breathing hard through the vertigo.

“ _You okay?”_

He could hear his father inside the house, though the steps were crossing the floor fast towards the back door. Feeling his cheeks getting hot, Shawn felt around for his cane, finding the rubber head by luck and wrenching at it viciously until he finally freed it from whatever it had snagged on. Something rocked after he yanked it loose, the toppling clatter of wicker on wood identifying the object as one of the deck chairs.

He turned away from the door as it opened across from him.

“Nothing to see here,” he swallowed around the words and smirked before coughing out the stickiness in his throat. “Strong wind. Blew it right over...”

Steps followed by scrapes as the chair was righted.

“You've got a choice of turkey or ham.”

“Ham. But only if I can have cheese too. And no bacon, you always make it too crispy. And mayo. And mustard but the yellow kind not that schmancy poo poo junk.”

An irritated grunt was a more familiar response. “Anything else, your highness?”

“Chocolate banana smoothie?”

“You have a choice of water or ginger ale.”

Shawn grimaced. “Fine. Chocolate milk it is.”

He made compromises but only on his terms and with the sigh and retreating steps he knew he'd bartered the old man down to what he'd wanted in the first place. Not that he'd have turned down a smoothie but better to shoot high.

0o0o0

Lassiter had been forced to abandon his tail of Rollins after two days. Reduced to drive bys of the apartment on his off time, he knew that the man was still living there but not what he was up to beyond that. According to the guy at the pawn shop, he hadn't been back there again after that single visit. Not that baldy was Mr. Trustworthy but with no justification for subpoenaing the video footage from the shop's security cameras, he had to take his word for it.

Vick had been firm after discovering his surveillance. The man was innocent. Knock it off or risk a write up in his file. Whatever her thoughts on the issue he wasn't privy but she'd made it clear where the SBPD stood with regards to Rollins. Case closed.

Back to robberies and reports and red tape, Lassiter drank the last of his coffee and immediately wished for more. O'Hara, sitting a short distance away at her desk, looked as frustrated as he was about the politics in their latest case. Never easy when the wheels of justice where gummed up with lawyers. Especially when one of those lawyers was the father of the criminal cooling his heels in lock up. At least until daddy got his precious boy freed on some sort of fabricated technicality.

His partner sighed and he glanced up as she pushed away from her desk. Excellent! She was probably going for coffee too which meant... He held out his cup as she started past. “Hey, get me a cup t... O'Hara?”

Nothing. She just kept going like he'd been speaking to the wall. Damn it! “McNab!”

Long limbs moved the young man across the floor like a lab scrabbling wet paws on tile. “Sir?”

Lassiter held up his cup and after a brief second of waiting for the light to dawn, McNab caught on and smiled, taking the mug. “Three creams four sugars?”

“You got it. Leave on my desk.”

“Yes sir!” God if the rest of the station could dredge up that much enthusiasm for even the most menial task no criminal in the city would stand a chance.

O'Hara was easy to catch up to. She didn't have his stride for one and with her expression her destination was easy enough to deduct. He was at her side by the time she reached the fitness room. She'd been hitting the track pretty hard lately and while he supported fitness and health her timing could be better.

“I assume you finished that report?”

“Carlton, not now.” Irritation and a glare that might make a rookie shiver wasn't much impact when the woman he had to answer to could bust them both down to traffic duty on a whim. He preferred not to give her excuses. He opened his mouth-

“I said not now!” Okay so her glare could be a little scary at full strength. Of course, intimidation had a funny way of pissing him off. His finger rose to point.

And her nail adorned index skewered him mid chest. “Look! I have been at my desk for the last five hours – I skipped lunch, I've got a Charley horse in the back of my neck, and the only thing I want to do is return the circulation to my butt before the tissue starts to die!” He swore there was a pop of skin as she released the talon from his flesh and he resisted the compulsion to rub at the crescent puncture he swore was there.

“Now,” O'Hara gave him another foot of space as she reached for the door, “you can either get out of my way... or you can join me. And don't tell me you haven't been thinking about a few laps yourself.” She smirked.

It made his fingers twitch to leave his own report incomplete on his desktop but there was a desperate tweak to his partner's expression that made this the easier choice.

“Fine. But later, you're coming with me to the range. Your aim has gotten a little shoddy and you could use a few hours brushing up.”

He got a glare but he also got agreement. And without further argument he followed her inside.

0o0o0

Shawn had escaped again, though he'd made certain his warden was fully occupied with the newspaper behind the bathroom door. All he'd needed were a few minutes to limp out the door and away from the house to feel the relief of being out from under steady scrutiny. He'd brought the damn cane with as well but only to prevent a sequel to the last prison break. More Shawshank Redemption than Death Race though without the touchy hands. Dad made a passable Warden Norton.

_Squeak, clup, squeak, clup_

He'd gone the other way this time and avoided the Great Dane, Harold or Barry or something, it's been hard to hear Mrs. Nusbaum calling to her young elephant over the barking.

Fewer houses in this direction with the sidewalk giving way to a long beach to the right and a bluff on the left. More sounds of excited screams and laughter with the surf filling in the cracks – flowing over the top like bubbly icing.

He was making better distance this time, hoping to reach the loose pile of boulders and driftwood where teenagers held bonfire parties almost every night over summer break. Dad hated it but for Shawn it was a series of memories about his first hangover, his first kiss involving tongue, listening to music that both dad and Gus wouldn't have approved of, and getting inspired to pierce his ear when one of his random and fleeting bonfire friends had his lobe punctured right then and there by an inebriated pal wielding a safety pin. Shawn, of course, being not a fan of either blood or STDs, had chosen the more sanitary conditions of a mall kiosk.

He reached the end of the sidewalk faster than he'd planned and stumbled hard when his left foot caught in the sand dusted grass. His cane swept out and kept him from tumbling but it was an awkward sprawl of limbs for a second or two before he could gather all his bits together and hope he'd avoided any ogling.

Barely a step away from the sidewalk and he was already realizing the complication of his path. He couldn't anticipate any of the surface changes – lumpy grass a far cry from the smooth cement. Even his memory was no help because the sand shifted daily and what he saw in his mind wasn't what his feet encountered. Three more times he stumbled before bracing his knees and gripping his hand tight around the cane handle. He realized, with a thump of dry fear in his throat, that he was stuck.

He could call for help... somewhere distant there were still voices on the wind. But they were a ways distant now and would they even pay attention to him? And was he so stuck that he was okay with the embarrassment of being rescued from the scary grass?

“You alright there, son?”

The slight rasp of the voice out of the blank air was close enough to make him jump – he still wasn't doing a good enough job of really focusing on his hearing to know when people were creeping up behind him and honestly, he figured people should be watching out for him rather than the other way around.

“Awesome.” He waved to the open air before quickly grabbing at his cane again as he wobbled. His feet weren't planted well and he didn't dare shift them in case he went all the way down and became trapped forever on the beach. Well at least he had the bum look going – though Abby was already threatening to hire a sheep shearer.

His rough voice laughed though it didn't exactly sound mean. Definitely amused. But the point was, he laughed.

“Need a hand?”

Shawn smirked. “I never turn away applause.”

Not commenting on the comment, the other man moved closer until his hand wrapped around Shawn's elbow. “Little rough right here – just lift your feet high.”

Shawn could feel the roughness of the man's skin – calloused like his dad but the hands were slightly smaller. The man was a bit taller than him and from his movements, a bit more slender. They only needed a few steps before they were back on the sidewalk.

“Thanks man.” As soon as he was released, he struck his hand out in the open air. “Shawn.”

Grip returned in a short shake. “David. David Martin.”

Shawn began the trek back along the known part of the path. “You here for the scenery or just to rescue gorgeous psychics in distress?”

David chuckled, his footsteps placing him about two feet behind Shawn, his pace relaxed, heels dragging just a bit across the sidewalk. “Staying with some friends at their beach house for the summer. Thought I'd come down by the ocean for a bit for some fresh air. How about you? You live around here?”

Shawn slowed as his legs began to throb a bit. Angling towards where he knew a bench was resting, he felt around with his toes until they brushed the metal foot. Positioning himself so he wouldn't miss the seat, he lowered his butt to the painted metal.

“I'm staying with my dad for a few weeks but I have an apartment in town.” He felt the man move past him before he, too, sat down on the bench. The smell of oil and grease lifted from the man's clothing.

“You're a mechanic?” Usually he'd make that a statement but without visuals he still wasn't quite ready for leaps.

“...No, I uh... I'm just fixing up an old car for my buddy.” Why that made him uneasy Shawn didn't know, care, or want to pursue. He was tired and it was past time for his pain medication. He could already feel the sting in his skull that was the start of another migraine. He wanted to get back to the house before it got too bad which meant saying goodbye to his new pal.

“You okay?”

Shawn rubbed his fingers across his eyebrows. “Yeah, no... just headache. Look, I need to head back. Nice meeting you though.” His fingers clutched the cane as he pulled himself back to his feet. David stood too and Shawn could feel the pressure of his fingers brush next to his sleeve.

“You sure you don't need a hand getting back?”

Shawn wouldn't turn down a piggy back ride but asking for that from a stranger probably wasn't the best way to start a relationship. “I'm good. Just... could you make sure I'm pointed towards that row of bungalows near the cluster of palm trees?”

“You're good to go man.”

David seemed content to lounge on the bench so Shawn tipped his fingers once and headed back.

By the time he reached the house he was nearly stumbling and didn't complain when his father met him on the sidewalk out front to half carry him the rest of the way.

“Friend of yours?” Not a reprimand, yet. But the suspicion was comforting in its level of predictability.

“Some guy. Saved me from the Sarlacc.” He could hear the smack of wind that the reference left behind as it coasted over his father's shiny scalp.

“What did the doctor say about you taking off like that?”

And there it was...

He was inside and headed for the couch before realizing his father was still standing at the door. Shawn sighed and gave in to the extra exertion to round up the old man. He knew he'd been ignored when he thrust his hand into his dad's face to feel that his gaze was facing back towards the sidewalk.

“Hey-Shawn!” Wiping away the dirty digits his father spit at the taste of the one pinky that had lodged in his mouth.

“Are you spying on my rescuer?”

“I'm not spying.” Door hit the frame as his dad moved back into the house and beelined for the fridge. Two clanking bottles of unknown identity turned out to be cream soda as Shawn took a trusting sip at what was shoved in his hand. A second later, two pills were added to his afternoon snack and he downed them without pause.

“Then you were leering. Look, dad, if you want to meet this guy we'll have him over for burgers. But just so long as we order from Chubbies, I don't think you can afford a lawsuit.” The couch caught his butt and there was only a small wince before he slumped down and let his cane tip to the floor.

The growl was pitch perfect irritation as his father righted the walking tool and squeaked springs as he sat across from him. “First of all, my burgers are just fine. The only one who ever bitches about the lack of topping choices is you. Secondly, I have no interest in meeting some random beach bum just because two seconds worth of interaction has turned him into Gary Cooper-”

Shawn frowned. “The gay neighbor in American Beauty?”

“That was Chris Cooper. Look, I could care less who you make friends with just...” some shifting around and a swallow before his dad clacked his bottle on the coffee table. “Just be careful, alright?”

It was hushed enough that Shawn didn't feel the desire to mock the overprotectiveness this time. Dad, not waiting for even a nod, cut apart the weird silence by turning on the television and ending whatever else they might have discussed by bumping the volume.

After a few mellow seconds of letting the floaty medication carry his mind a few inches left, Shawn decided he didn't care about the odd moment between them. Instead, he settled in to listen to the sports highlights.

Five minutes later, he was dreaming.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	9. If You Could See What I See

There hadn't been enough time in that short interaction to make a real decision. Not a decision with anything other than instinct to back it. The kid hadn't recognized his voice. But really, was that even a factor at this point? He hadn't recognized it this time, but what about a week from now? A month? At any time those memories could come back and ticking time bombs were never safe to leave unattended. He'd known it even before approaching the young man. He couldn't take the risk. He just needed to deal with this and split out of town. Hell, it would even be easy. The one thing he had picked up on, in that single interaction with the kid, was that getting into trouble seemed to come easily to him.

Nobody would even think twice if it found him again.

And nobody would ever suspect a thing.

0o0o0

His first attempt at paying for a taxi with Gus's card ended in embarrassment and threats of arrest by the driver who'd accused Shawn of shenanigans when he'd passed the man his buddy's library card. It had felt just like the Visa and with the invention of the Kindle nobody used a library card anymore. He hadn't thought twice about it.

Once actual money exchanged hands the driver had shown a more sympathetic streak. Uncomfortably so as he'd opened the taxi door for Shawn and grabbed his bicep. Though Shawn had tried squirming away, repeatedly insisting that he was fine, Grubbers the friendly taxi man hadn't released him until his free hand could brace against the wood frame of the office door. Mumbled thanks was enough by that point and the man had set him free with a jaunty admonition to “stay safe”.

There'd been a moment, after the sound of the cab had pulled away, when Shawn had panicked at being without both his key and cell phone. Finding them in his left pocket had poured a shiver of cool sweat between his shoulder blades, wondering how he could have forgotten putting them there.

He felt a narrow sliver glide into the crease of his thumb as he felt down to the knob. Pinpointing the keyhole with his fingertips, he dragged the head of the key across the opening, wiggling it as he tried to force it into the slot. Three tries and he was already muttering language more favored by his father than himself.

Why was it so damn hard!?

Grinding now, he gave up on finesse and jabbed the key towards the hole, certainly leaving marks and gouges around the narrow opening. But finally, finally it slid in place. Thank God! Sucking at the meaty part of his thumb as he pushed inside and let the door hang open behind him, he felt out the immediate area with his toes just to be sure a wandering desk hadn't made its way across the floor the last time he'd stopped by. Migrating furniture aside, no major obstacles covered his path other than a couple of paper balls – nothing with enough bulk to drop him to his knees.

He found his desk after a long shuffle bent forward like one of those rheumatoid afflicted old men from Shady Pines. Desperately hoping he hadn't been spotted lock-kneed and scrambling towards any solid surface, he kept his hand planted on the center of the desk while he pivoted around to where his chair supposedly sat. More success and he felt both shame and gratitude to make a solid landing on the cushion.

Would it always be this way? A series of steps just to get to the next safe patch of ground? Like the games he played with Gus when they were kids – the floor is lava so you can only hop from rug to rug, the safety zone being when you made it outside. But that last rug was always so hard to reach. Running jump and just the right landing would glide you like a rockstar to the threshold. Miscalculate, though, and on top of skinned elbows there usually involved a lecture from the old man about roughhousing and scratching the floor. As if the blood filling in the cracks of your elbow were a lesser blight than some invisible scrape on a patch of wood usually covered by braided cloth anyhow.

Why had he come here anyway? Did he think he could do something? Maybe call up the Chief. Get in on a case? Nevermind the poked out peepers, he was still useful! Maybe he didn't have Gus's Super-Smeller but he could hear like a vicuna and had the could literally taste the vibes of the air – he was so Blind Fury it was sick. He just needed a sword. Maybe a pair of scythes. Ken could totally hook him up. Probably even had some weird uncle or great grandfather that could train Shawn in the ways of blind combat.

The sliver still embedded in his palm had began to throb a little mini beat and Shawn forwent sucking the wound to lightly dragging his fingertip over the place he'd been impaled. Spit softened skin didn't give away any secrets and he grumbled as he felt around for some kind of tool. Dad would have leaped at this little repair job – always going for the finest honed needle, though sanitary measures usually had involved wiping it down the front of his shirt before plucking at whatever bit of wood or glass had jabbed itself into tender flesh. Berated time and again for flinching before the diamond sharp tip could even get within feet of his person, Shawn wasn't prepared to call in reinforcements for this one annoyance. How wimpy would that be? Calling dad cause of a sliver.

Seriously.

Hand pawing over his desk he found a growing number of unsightly words crowding his throat at the span of clean – suspiciously clean surface that met his search. Gus. As if a pencil left out of its cup meant disaster for his recovery! What it meant was that Shawn had no clue where to find any of the items his brain insisted were right there! He had a perfect picture of the layout – every knick knack no matter how haphazardly placed, was cataloged and easily referenced when he really put the time into thinking through where he'd left something. But now in a feat of 'just trying to help' his buddy had wiped out any hope of finding something as simple as his stapler. Or a letter opener. Hell, a safety pin. Probably all tucked in his drawers – Shawn snorted that Gus might have even color coded everything. Now that he could get away with such excesses of organization. Shawn would never know after all...

The quest for something pointy abruptly died when the desk phone rambled. Great. Where the hell...

Eyes wide, as though it actually could help, Shawn reached towards the sound only to meet more open air. Waving in slow circles, he felt his fingertips brush against plastic seconds before toppling the phone from its base. Clattering free, he thrust his hand after the device, chasing it down before it could scramble to the floor. Trapped under his wrist, he held it flattened to the desk until he was certain it wouldn't make another break for it.

Thumbing the button, he shoved the phone into his shoulder so he could wrap his free hand around his sling and slump into his chair. His adventure had already drained him and he couldn't have been at the office for more than fifteen minutes tops.

“You've reached Psych...”

“ _Shawn, there you are! Why aren't you answering your phone?”_

This didn't qualify? Of course, one could assume this was about the cell phone nestled in Shawn's back pocket. The cell phone that hadn't jingled at him in over a day. The cell phone that no longer held a charge which was why he'd relied on the house phone rather than make the effort to try to find wherever his charger was hidden. Granted, in plain sight qualified as hiding.

“I told you I was going out...”

“ _You said you were wanted to get out of the house, I thought you meant you were going to go sit on the deck, not hitchhike to your office!”_

“I didn't hitchhike, I called a cab.”

“ _You snuck out and you didn't bother letting me know!”_

“I didn't know I was on a curfew!”

Huffed breath on either end of the phone. The low thrum of headache that never really went away pounded awake at the completely unanticipated shoutfest. Anger with his father wasn't new but the frequency of their fights was becoming disturbing. It was the fall of 95' all over again.

Pulling the phone away from his ear long enough to thump it against his thigh, Shawn sucked a couple more breaths until he was able to control the urge to hang up. Dad knew the number, he'd just call back anyhow.

“Look, dad, I just needed to get out okay? A couple hours. If it makes you feel better I'll call Gus and have him pick me up after his route and bring me home again like a good little prodigy.”

“ _First, I think you mean prodigal. Second, unless you plan on waiting till tomorrow you're gonna be there a while. It's after ten, Shawn.”_

“Pm??” No more afternoon naps – they totally threw him off! No wonder dad was worked up enough to call SWAT. He'd assume the muffled sound on the other end wasn't his father laughing at him. That would be uncalled for. And then he realized it _was_ his imagination when Henry spoke again, no trace of mirth in his tone.

“ _Couple hours then. If you need to leave earlier, call me. Otherwise I'll come get you in a little while. But Shawn... just keep me in the loop... kay' kid?”_

It had almost sounded, for a second, as though his dad had been about to lay down that curfew law for real before remembering both how ineffective as well as straight bizarre that would have been. Shawn smirked at the idea.

“I will.”

Could have ended worse. Almost had. They really needed to stop doing that. Headache aside it was just wearing to climb back into good graces with one another. If they weren't sharing a house it'd be easier to just let the fights progress in their natural way. But maybe this was the better option.

Shawn fiddled with the phone a while before shoving it towards where the dock was resting... supposedly. At least now he had a solid excuse for not hanging it up again. Though _having_ an excuse kinda took a measure of the enjoyment out of it.

For the second time in minutes he was questioning why he'd dragged himself to the office at all. Dad had had a point – the deck would have been closer and easier if he'd just been looking to get out of the house. What difference did any indoor space really make anymore other than to option up various challenges to navigation? TV could be listened to just as easily at his dad's place so it wasn't the plasma. Video games were totally out without Gus there to guide him and what was the point of doing that anyhow? Yeah, they'd actually tried it a few days ago – neither admitting to how pathetic it was.

Letting his frame sink back and back until the chair tilted, Shawn considered that he'd have been better off had he just beelined for the couch upon entering the office. Sure he'd probably have missed the call from his dad but seeing the downside to that was a struggle. At least now he had a decent reason for feeling so exhausted. Ten pm. Man, he _had_ to get one of those bumpy watches Gus had been telling him about.

Well maybe.

He'd been resisting those little aids for weeks. Outright refused any offers to learn Braille though both his physical therapist and doctor had been pushing that he sign up for classes. Abby had been the worst about it – they'd actually fought about it a few nights ago, her side of the argument ending in sniffs and silent anger at his refusal. He'd felt like the world's worst boyfriend and a very special sort of ass but he still hadn't given in. And he hadn't been able to explain why either. He knew why but saying it aloud wouldn't have strengthened his point. It was a stupid superstition but he couldn't shake the idea that if he started to live like a blind man he'd stay one. This was something to recover from not accept. This wasn't what he'd signed up for and who's business was it anyhow whether or not he could read bumps on paper? Like that would really help anyhow. I wasn't as though Vick was going to start printing up Braille case files for when he returned to...

Besides, his sight would be back by then so it was moot. And he repeated the word in his head, moot, enjoying the sound it made.

He yawned and tilted back even more. A few seconds of thought on the subject had taken away the appeal of making for the couch after all. And it wouldn't be the first nap he'd taken in his chair, though he knew his stiff muscles weren't likely to loosen up on the firm pleather. Still, he had his pain meds for that.

And letting that be the last thought to concern him, he invested the next three minutes into drifting off.

0o0o0

“ _We heard ice cream on our police scanner and it happened to be Gus's snack time...”_

“ _Hey, Stop!”_

“ _This is my associate, Donut Holestein...”_

_Branches whapped across his cheek, drawing blood, but he couldn't stop – no time to stop – to breathe. Run! Keep running – he's going to kill you!_

_Wheezing through his chest – no more air, none! His legs were liquid and he was stumbling, tripping over every branch and root in his path – no more, God no more! Growling anger behind him so close! Run!_

“ _We can talk, we're just two men, speaking...”_

_Dad, I can't keep going! What do I do!?_

_Find a safe place – stay out of sight, hurry!_

“ _I will shoot you.”_

_A tree – close enough – had to be enough – can't go any further – so tired – it hurts..._

_His body collapsed in the nest beneath the tree – roots curved around him – woody guardians as the beast ran past, still snarling – furious. Bleeding – he was bleeding – worse again from running the hot throb of it was thick across his chest. Was he dying? He couldn't stay upright – slumping down towards the dirt and leaves, root catching his body – stones filling his limbs. So tired..._

“ _I'd have been happy just stealing the ice cream...”_

“Shawn?”

The chair lurched as Shawn's arm flew out in a wild arc – wheels scooting as his legs flailed – body rocking backward and floor impact imminent he threw his hand over his head to protect his already broken skull – only to have his terminal momentum stopped short.

Gasping several deep breaths at the adrenaline downpour from the near fall he pushed his hand out in front of himself, instantly encountering a solid chest – a quick sweep back and forth confirming that arms were braced on either side of himself, hands locked on the arms of his chair and the reason he hadn't added a new concussion to his injuries. Hating that the next involuntary reaction was a round of trembles, he slumped against the seat back as he felt his father straighten and release the chair – the shift in heat source moving just slightly left.

“You okay?”

He nodded, sniffing as he scrubbed a hand under his nose. What the hell was wrong with him?

“ _Hey, I know you! You're Garth Longmore!”_

Another gasp, though it wasn't from spent fear this time, but shock.

“ _I'd have been happy just stealing the ice cream...”_

“Shawn?”

But it wasn't just words... He could see it too, in his head. The memory suddenly more real than the room he was in, he could even smell the gunpowder from the exiting round.

“ _I'd have been happy just stealing the ice cream...”_

“Shawn, talk to me, kid.” Hand touched his arm and he jerked, turning towards the motion as he felt the cold of that night sweep over him. Too long since his last dose of meds, the pain in his shoulder added a very agonizing layer to the report of the weapon that concussed through his mind.

His dad was still hovering and there was no need for sight to know that he was worried.

“Dad...”

“ _I'd have been happy just stealing the ice cream...”_

Blast of fire and pain, body thrust backward and striking hard packed dirt – tall frame lunging after him and grasping his arms, agony through his ruined shoulder, pleading and struggle...

“What's happening, kid?” Soft query as the air flow beside him shifted. His father had couched by his chair and Shawn didn't fight with the sudden need to grasp at his father's sleeve. Desperate for the touch of something in the present as the images from the past took over his mind.

“Dad I'm... I think I'm starting to remember...”

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	10. I See a Red Door

Of course it was raining.

She'd been trying for weeks to talk to Shawn; her first word drawing his sightless eyes and pushing her guilt to a point of subject changing. Again. It was the way his gaze didn't quite catch her face but fell towards an area just beyond her shoulder. He'd been getting better at it, but she was grateful he couldn't see the pity she felt at his attempts. And she hated the emotion. With her chosen career, she couldn't allow herself to feel pity. And it was that reminder that worked her through the hurt she was about to cause. She had no choice. It had to be now.

“Shawn... I...” His hand felt across the open air. He'd become more sensitive to her moods lately. He could hear the stress in her voice and, being the type of guy he was, wanted to take it away if he could. Just once more, she let him. Her fingers met his across the span and his thumb rubbed across her knuckles. She looked down so she wouldn't have to see the way his face calmed as well. He needed this as much as she did. She swallowed and ripped the bandage.

“I'm going away, Shawn.”

She finally looked up at him; his appearance nearly breaking her. His attentive expression had twisted down and the knotted scar, still clearly visible among the soft regrowth of hair, was a shiny pinkish red against skin that had gone pale. Cheeks she'd finally talked him into shaving the previous day were still mostly smooth and gave him a child-like appearance that almost smothered her with the need to pull him against her chest.

He swallowed and Abby could see how hard he worked to smile at her. Only one side managed to twist up, made a lie at the moisture across his blank eyes. “How... how long will you be gone?” His thumb rubbed harder along her fingers and though it was venturing into uncomfortable, she didn't pull away.

“Shawn...”

“What, like a week? Couple weeks?” She squeezed her hands around his when the pressure began to sting – knowing this couldn't have been remotely easy but not realizing it would be this damn hard. He wasn't letting her just tell him, but then, that was probably the point.

“It... it's going to be a while...”

“But you'll be back, right? I mean, it's not,” he chuckled, uncomfortable and sharp, “it's not like you're leaving forever!”

At her silence he stilled, fingers freezing over hers. “Oh my God, it _is_ forever...”

From desperate denial to worst case scenario. There was never a middle ground for him. “No, Shawn, not forever.” Though it could very well be, for him. “I was given an opportunity to do something I've wanted to do for a very long time. I'm going to Uganda; to volunteer with the Peace Corps. I'll be gone for at least six months. I won't be able to call you or come back until I see it through.” And if she found this was her calling... But there was no need to mention that.

Something that was trying to be a smile worked over his lips before dying in defeat. “That's... that's a long time.” He finally leaked out. Abby nodded – too easy to forget he couldn't actually see her.

“Yeah.”

His fingers started rubbing hers again, though more softly. “W-when do you...”

“Two weeks.”

“Wow that's...” He swallowed and pulled his hand back to rub at his eyes.

She didn't know what to say after that. Didn't want to say the ultimate cost of what this meant. They both knew but they were both good at denying the truth. And she couldn't bear to hurt him any more that day even though the thought of dragging this out would be worse. But then he took the choice from her.

“It's... are you...” he licked his lips and stared down at the deck – though the change of perspective was so obviously a way to avoid as he saw the same thing no matter where his eyes rested. “Is it over?” Such a small whisper that he reminded her of the children in her care. The same tone she heard when a little one was asking if he had to take a nap rather than play on the swing set.

“I'm sorry.” She whispered back, knowing it would be harder on him to offer the suggestion of “maybes”. They had only stayed so long because of his injury. But they'd begun to drift before then. They both knew it even if she was the only one who'd acknowledged it. Shawn tended to ignore whatever demanded too much of him emotionally. The irony was that he couldn't see this had contributed to them growing more distant.

He nodded, then. His hand tried to take hers again but she pulled free. “I should go.”

“I'll learn Braille!”

“Shawn...”

“Whatever you want! I'll... I'll get one of those white canes, and a dog! They still use dogs, right?”

She couldn't do this! “Shawn, it isn't about you learning Braille or anything else.” _It's about me_. How cliché'. She couldn't say that.

“Abs,” He was reaching for her again but she stood. It wasn't just difficult for him. This was tearing her apart and she was just barely escaping with her voice steady as it was. “I need to go, Shawn. I'll call before I leave, I promise.” A promise she shouldn't be making. But they were still friends regardless. It was what they could have been that was crushing her. She closed her lips around the “I love you” that would have been so easy to say. Would have been cruel to say.

“Abs...” He tried again, but she wiped her eyes and turned away – knowing the last thing he'd hear would be her heels on the sidewalk as she left him behind on the deck; and tried to ignore the hand that snatched for her arm, one last time, and missed.

0o0o0o0

It wasn't the way it was supposed to go. What sorta “At First Sight” action was this? Val got the girl at the end of the movie. She didn't walk away from her crippled boyfriend without even a goodbye kiss to offer the hope of reconciliation. He didn't even know what he'd done wrong. A temporary lift of his blindness – that had to be what was lacking. Just a short reprieve to show how much he needed her.

Shawn had moved from deck to couch after Abby had gone. Single word answers when dad asked if he was hungry led to complete silence when the old man asked what was wrong. Everything was wrong, but then, dad could see that. Everyone else could see that. He couldn't see but he could sure as hell feel. What went wrong? Long distance romance didn't have to mean none! She was coming back... eventually. Why did it have to end? Six months... half a year. They could make it work. They totally could!

“Lunch is ready. Here, turkey sandwich.” Shawn's hand was guided to the plate, and then to the glass of juice nearby.

“Thanks.” He moved his hand back to his lap. He wasn't hungry. Probably just end up wearing it anyhow and how embarrassing was it to have his dad clean up his dribbles like he was a toddler. He was surprised the old man hadn't dug out his old bibs. Granted, he'd always liked the one with the monkey clutching a banana...

“I thought Abby was staying for dinner.”

And there it was. He should have headed for the boardwalk instead. What had he been thinking?

“She... had something she had to do.”

“Gus is coming by in a bit. He's picking up dessert...”

Shawn let his father talk, barely grunting at the promise of key lime pie though it was one of his favorites. He poked at his sandwich and chewed a few bites here and there just to keep the worry prattle at bay. When his fingers mapped out that a little over half of the sandwich yet remained, his stomach torquing at the thought of swallowing more, he gave in and pushed his plate away. A light ting of glass and a lurch and stifled sigh from his father let him know he'd come close to knocking over his juice glass. How many times would that have made it? Nine? Twelve? Damn, he'd lost count. And if he wasn't knocking things over he was stepping in them or sitting on them or falling over them. Shifting something a single inch had a way of destroying the entire layout of a room and while he wanted to lay the blame on his father he had to face up to it that his own fat feet had a way of knocking things out of place. He hadn't decided yet if there was any funny in the pathetic.

“You finished?”

He nodded, waiting for the lecture.

“I'll clean up. Why not go sit back out on the deck; it's nice out right now.”

Wow, really? No, “you're looking too skinny, Shawn” or “you barely touched your food” or even an “I killed that damn bird myself, now you're going to eat!”

“Okay.” No reason to remind old Henry that he was slipping. That was mom's job.

Shawn winced. _Was_ mom's job. It'd been two weeks since he'd talked to her last...

0o0o0o0o0

Dad had been right about the deck – the morning rain gone now leaving the expanse haloed in warmth from the afternoon sunshine. Sliding his feet to the rail, he held on and tipped up his face, making certain his lids were closed just in case he was staring directly at the sun. No need to complicate healing by burning out his retinas. He supposed maybe he should take up that one suggestion about wearing sunglasses.

It was late in the day – a thing he'd never really have noted before without a glance at his watch, he now noticed from the angle of the rays hitting his face. No idea of the actual time he guessed it to be around four in the afternoon. Maybe five.

He'd been a single guy again for about four hours now. It didn't feel much different as it had when he'd still had a girlfriend except that now it was okay for him to ogle other... was okay if he...

Yeah, it wasn't the same at all.

Gus would be showing up soon and suddenly Shawn couldn't stand facing questions from his buddy anymore than he could stand them from his dad. Besides the fact that Gus would probably pick up on what had happened even through the lie that he was okay.

He'd promised he wouldn't go off on his own again but since when had he ever kept a promise that didn't involve bribery?

His walker slash cane slash walking stick was still inside but the last thing he wanted was to go back for it and get caught. Instead, he hoped like hell he wouldn't end up in another sand trap and grasped the railing as he made very, very slow steps down from the deck to the sidewalk.

Easy enough to stay on the path at this point – he held out one hand to catch the gate whenever he came to it. It was a further walk than he'd remembered and he took a splinter when his fingertips rammed the pickets rather than grasped them. He held his wounded hand close to his other hand where it rested in the sling; tried to feel where the splinters were imbedded. He could feel the sting but couldn't free them this way. He'd need help. Again.

Sucking his jabbed thumb, he continued forward through the gate. With both hands occupied, he led with his toe tips – nearly at a crawl in order to keep from stumbling. He should have remembered his cane. His legs felt stronger but he still needed the guidance and, though it agonized him to think it, he felt anxious without that barrier between himself and rest of the world. Nothing was safe any longer.

It was stubbornness and anger at his fears that continued the walk that frustration and hurt feelings had begun. Waves at his right washing up and down the beach. The same sound he'd heard since childhood – unchanged. The same smell too, of salt and sand and faintly of fish. Motor oil and gasoline from a fishing boat passing close to the shore where he stood, face to the water. He could hear the burbling spit of the motor as it trolled by at a slow clip.

Seagulls overhead, flying in from the waves. Their cries always sounded sad. Or maybe they sounded sad now. He'd never really thought about it until that moment.

The small rocks beneath his shoes squeaked as he shifted his feet. The path was uneven where he stood and it toyed with his balance. He'd faced this choice before the last time he'd wandered off on his own. Turn back where his steps were known or continue forward with the risk he could end up stuck again.

Of course, he was well known for being a whiny baby when it came to tough choices. Right.

He chose door number three and hung a right – down towards the beach.

Within seconds his feet were threading across grass that made the softest crunch under his heels. A smell rose up from the mashed stems; like watermelon and earth. Several children ran past, just a few feet away. Their giggling turned to complains when their parents, just a bit further down the beach, told them it was time to go home.

It was starting to cool, either from the sun setting or from clouds rolling in. Maybe both. It was probably later in the day than he'd assumed. He slowed even more when his feet left the grass for heavy sand. This was what had frozen him before.

He mired within seconds and stopped struggling while sucking in shallow breaths. He knew the hard packed sand was close – just a few feet. If he could make it there he'd be alright. Just keep some distance from the water. It would suck on a whole new level of suck to accidentally bumble into the ocean.

Another few moments before the throb faded in his thighs, he heaved at his right leg and took a step, then another. A few times he wobbled where the sand dipped unexpectedly into a pocket or rose up in a small hill. Not always did he keep his feet either and he hoped the beach really was clear of people as he, again, squirmed and tottered as he pulled himself out of the sand and back to his feet.

Sand was under his shirt, down his pants, and itching in places that would be embarrassing to scratch out in the open. So maybe defiant independence could have stayed to the smooth-ish concrete. Sure, he'd finally reached firmer sand but he still had to retrace his steps at some point. Unless he planned to simply stay on the beach forever. He could do it though, he supposed. Plenty of food vendors so he wouldn't starve. Plus, he had that whole blind thing going for him. That and a paper cup could earn him enough spending cash to keep him in churros for months.

Gus would quickly tell him that blind people could hold down jobs other than beach hobo, but this wasn't about insulting a group of people, it was about avoidance. Because backtracking towards the sidewalk not only meant another trip through Death Valley, but it would end in his father's house. Either to a bitchfest for disappearing or, possibly worse, some variation of coddling.

His legs ached and he wanted to sit but the only surface was wet sand. There was a pier not too far off – he could hear the hollow clud of heels moving along the planks. He could also hear the sound of the vendors preparing to close down for the evening and calling out for a few final sales. It really was later, then.

Feeling a bit Gus-like, Shawn tilted back his head to catch more of the salt air. With the proximity of the pier, he also caught the moldy vegetable smell of seaweed wrapped around the support beams beneath the boardwalk. And something else... Unwashed hair and oil...

He thought... he thought he knew that smell but...

“Hey! Shawn, right?”

Sliding scrinch of packed sand as someone walked up on his left side. He turned his body towards the voice – knowing he'd heard it before.

“David? David... Martin, right?” Of course his rescuer from before would turn up to save him a second time. Not that he really needed saving – just a teensy bit of assistance. An itty bitty smidge of guidance to get him back to the sidewalk. But not yet. It could even wait till after the sun set, really. It didn't make a difference anymore.

“You made it further this time.”

Shawn nodded. “I was thinking of entering the Santa Barbara marathon next month. Need to work my glutes.”

David chuckled and moved a little closer. Shawn could feel the heat of his body through his sling and shivered goosebumps down his frame at the jump in temperature. It was cool enough now that he wished for his jacket.

He really, really didn't want to walk all the way back to the house again. The word _pathetic_ kept rolling round and round but it was being overshadowed by shaky fatigue and as determined as he'd been a few minutes ago to tough it out, he was just as determined now to have someone else do the work of getting his ass to his father's house.

He slid his hand towards his back pocket before he remembered, very clear for a memory that contained only tactile sensations, pulling his phone from his pocket when the casing had dug into his hip. He'd set it on the table while eating lunch. Far as he knew, it was still there.

“Damn it.” He was hoofing it after all. No worries. He'd likely pass out from exhaustion long before he'd need another dose of pain medication.

“You okay?”

Shawn rubbed his eyes. They felt dry and scratchy. “I'm fine. Just forgot my phone. I was gonna call my dad for a lift.” Or Gus. Gus might be better. Then they could stop for waffle cones on the way back.

“Don't worry, I've got a phone right here.”

“ _Don't worry...”_

“ _Don't worry, I've got a phone...”_

“ _I need you to call Carlton Lassiter...”_

“ _It's okay...”_

“ _You should hurry though, he's really motivated...”_

“ _Tell me again who you need me to call...”_

Shawn gasped, memory and pain stabbing a screwdriver into his brain and twisting the tool. His pushed his palm to his forehead and bent at the waist – felt hands on his shoulders.

“Hey, you alright, kid?”

“ _I say we just shoot him in the head and dump the body and get on with this.”_

“Kid?”

“ _You got a smart mouth.”_

“Here, there's a bench close by...”

“ _...just stay here, I'll take care of this myself.”_

“Come with me. You'll be okay.”

“ _Now you keep quiet about this, you got me?”_

Greasy, unwashed hair. Oil and gasoline. The sharper smell of automotive paint. Gunpowder.

Shawn wrenched from the hands and half tripped backward – staring in the direction of the man who wasn't named David. But he knew this man. Knew his voice, his smell, his touch. That face, singed so firmly now across eyes that saw only his frame above him, a silhouette against the morning sun.

The last thing he ever saw.

“Well that's too bad. I was hoping we had just a little more time.”

Movement that Shawn couldn't dodge as Rollins grabbed his bicep and yanked him close – a hard, cold shape nestling up beneath his ribs and cloaked in the folds of his shirt.

It was silent above them, now. The food carts were gone and whatever people remained, they'd pay no attention to two men strolling along the beach.

“How about we talk a walk, huh? It looks like a beautiful evening.”

The gun buried in his side, the world black before him, Shawn had no choices left. Fear snapping through every nerve, legs stiff, he was dragged forward – away from the last touch of sunlight on his back – to vanish beneath the pier.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	11. The Ghost and the Darkness

The apartment was empty. Not just empty but cleaned out. He'd cooled his heels for five minutes while the slumlord who managed the rat hole dug around to find the right key. Only after Lassiter had shouldered the door open and stepped inside had the man thought to share that Rollins had checked out two hours ago.

He wanted to kick the walls. He wanted to kick the slumlord too, that spongy son of a bitch. Mostly, though, he wanted to kick himself. And not in some figurative, emotional way but with a literal size twelve to the ass. He never should have dropped his surveillance to just a few days a week! Now that bastard was in the wind and more than likely had booked a ticket to the first tequila stocked watering hole in Tijuana.

The only question was, did he have any stops planned on his way to the airport?

His phone was out and partner dialed before he'd exited the apartment. He'd take whatever backlash the Chief threw his way for going behind her back but right that moment, he had to act.

In moments, O'Hara was searching all flights out of the country. He had no solid reason to think that Rollins would be on the run – no reason he should be if he was actually innocent. But there was a stench about this that Lassiter couldn't shake free from.

His next call was to Henry.

“ _I was just heading out, detective, what can I do for you?”_

Lassiter didn't question the motive for his destination. Whatever transparent phantoms communed with Spencer, they had nothing on the creature roaring in Carlton's gut.

“Is Shawn with you?”

A pause that was filled with the rustle of cloth.

“ _I was going out to look for him now. Kid keeps wandering off and, God help me if I sound like a fuddy-duddy but I don't like the idea of him outside after dark.”_

Carlton turned down the last street – the red and white house at the far end of his low beams, the outside light flipping on as he neared the driveway.

“I'm almost there. I'll go with you.”

He saw Henry stepping out of the house as he pulled up – phone still held against his ear.

“ _Carlton, what's going on?”_

0o0o0o0

The blunt shape he assumed was a gun only nudged him once, when he stumbled through the sand walking ahead of the other man. Rollins. John Rollins.

A week ago his memory had begun to return.

Speckles. Pieces. Fragments. Triggered by anything or nothing. He'd remembered the chair and the tape. He'd remembered running, gasping, through the forest with Bigfoot's only slightly smaller brother puffing after him. He'd remembered the bullet cutting through his shoulder and the feel of hard dirt as his body had collided with the ground.

His father had tried to help him remember more. He hadn't told him to close his eyes. The trying had hurt. The migraine always throbbing in his neck had ripped through his temples when he'd pushed too hard. Felt like blood vessels bursting under the skin. He'd remembered only a little.

Now... now he remembered it all.

Rollins had one hand on his arm; not so much to steady him, though. The hand was gripped in a claw, would leave narrow bruises along his bicep. Would... if he didn't die.

He was going to die.

Rollins had tried once and failed. He meant to try again and succeed, and then move on with his life. Take care of an irritation. A nuisance. A bump on his road to happiness. Shawn wondered if he'd dust off his hands when it was over. He wondered if he'd feel the bullet before he died. He wondered if he'd see his life flash before his eyes – to finally see again right before it all ended.

He was breathing fast, taking in gasps of air flavored with waterlogged wood and dead fish. The sand was packed firm under his feet. They were close to the water. Cold wet lapped up against his shoes. He felt it seeping through the loafers he'd slipped on before walking out.

His fingers still throbbed from the slivers shoved beneath the skin. The throbbing seemed to connect to his head and beat a deep bass between his ears.

“Stop here.”

Dav-Rollins... Rollins spoke like a guy reading aloud the sports scores from the paper. Like someone barely entertained by the activity. Barely... but still slightly enjoying himself. The gun pulled away from Shawn's spine and his body tipped back into the space it had left. He felt like he was floating in open air without that hard support shoved into his back. He felt lost. He remembered playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Dad didn't trust him with anything as dangerous as a needle so they'd used tape instead. He remembered the blindfold going around his eyes and then hands spinning him round and round and round. It felt that way now. And he desperately wanted to take the blindfold off.

Softest crunch of sand as Rollins stepped backward. There was no time left to remember. There was no time left to live.

Shawn licked his lips and tasted seawater. “The cops will know it was you. Look, you haven't killed anyone yet. You don't have to...”

“You so sure I haven't killed anyone?”

He gulped and licked his lips again. He wasn't sure. The way Rollins had so easily put a bullet in his head. He hadn't even hesitated. Why would he hesitate now?

Shawn whirled, arms swinging towards the source of the voice. His left wrist smacked metal and the underside of the pier echoed with the crack of gunfire – heat puffing out from the exiting cartridge and leaving Shawn with ringing ears and the blackened taste of the fired weapon on his tongue.

Rollins made a sound that was part snarl, part yell and Shawn felt a fist bash against his right ear so hard his hearing went numb on that side.

His fighting style had always leaned towards dirty with a side of desperate. He wasn't proud of it but then, he hadn't been brought up by a man that believed in waiting for the bad guy to throw the first punch.

His swing was wild – going for quantity over quality and hoping for the best while frantic to avoid the worst. He could swear he heard the whoosh of air from the complete miss and, if he weren't currently trying to avoid becoming dead, would have been embarrassed by how that would have looked.

The punch thrown by Rollins, however, didn't miss. Granted he had sight on his side and while he was falling towards the sandy earth, Shawn wondered why the guy didn't just shoot him. What was the point of smacking him around? He hit the ground and did his best to roll to the side, knowing he'd avoided another hurt by the curse Rollins let free. A curse that identified his location.

0o0o0o0

“And you think Rollins is after Shawn?”

Henry had about a ten foot lead on Carlton, who'd stopped once, hopping on one foot, to pour the bucket of sand from his left shoe.

“I don't know that for sure. It's just a feeling. Bastard's been playing us this whole time.” He finished in a low mutter.

The poster child for performance enhancers didn't bother to look back as his stride sped towards a jog. Grousing in the man's wake, Carlton stomped his shoe back in place, cursing as the back folded under his heel, and put his longer legs to good use catching up.

“Have you tried calling him?”

Henry snorted and shook his head. “I would have except he left his phone on the-”

The sharp crack had them both diving to the sand, Carlton pulling his weapon and both of them scanning the beach. The handful of civilians left wandering beside the purple tinged waves looked around at the noise before shrugging it off.

The two men that had recognized the sound of a gun firing locked in on the most likely source at the same time. Two hundred yards away, the long pier stretching out over the waves.

“Henry, I need you to call this...”

“If you think I'm going to argue this with you, you've got another thing coming, buster.” Henry had already begun moving before the sentence was finished, breaking into a run before Carlton could snatch him back. Growling, weapon in hand, he grabbed his radio from his belt and followed.

0o0o0o0

Shawn, still low to the ground, launched himself at knee height and impacted denim covered fleshiness.

He landed on the other man and swung towards where a face should have been, and shouted in pain when he slammed his knuckles against damp wood instead. One of the support beams beneath the pier. Rollins didn't have that disability and rolled them – reversing their positions. It was as Rollins placed both of his hands around his neck and started to squeeze that Shawn realized he must have knocked the gun away with that first swing. They'd been standing near the water. It must have gone under – out of reach.

Thumbs dug into his throat. He sucked at the air, rancid as it was, and wondered if he'd know when he was passing out if he couldn't see his vision going dark. His nails scraped at the fingers sinking tighter into his flesh. He could feel Rollins bearing down – pushing him into the sand. He bucked under the weight and the frantic need for air. He only had seconds before he'd lose consciousness. Letting go with one hand, he scrabbled with his fingers for anything, anything that would serve as a weapon no matter how small, but only found sand.

Sand. Gouging a handful of coarse grains, he swung it at Rollins' face. A yell and the immediate release of his throat was a clue he'd struck a direct hit. With luck, Rollins would be blinded for a short time. _Come on in, the water's fine_ , he thought, sourly – though not without a blush of vindictiveness.

Choking on the briney taste he sucked in with every stuttered gasp, Shawn rolled from the depression his body had created and pushed to his knees. He didn't even have time to wobble to his feet before a snarled animal sound preceded the flying tackle that sent him straight back to earth with a mouthful of sand as a bonus.

If those hands got around his neck again he knew he'd be finished. Twisting and swinging, he managed to embed an elbow into sensitive flesh and before Rollins could recover, again, Shawn had lurched to something resembling upright.

Where the hell to go? Away, somewhere – but the sounds were baffling under the pier. Water clopping against wood beams and pouring up against the shoreline, his own breath, rasped and shallow echoing back at him. He needed to get into the open where someone might see him!

He couldn't operate with the sling on his arm and yanked the strap over his head, letting the soft support fall as he stretched out his hands and moved at a pace between a fast walk and a slow jog. He couldn't run, though he felt the need screaming through his legs. Even going slow like this, he stumbled and tripped and bashed into the supports. Fingers and knuckles were scraped, arms bruised, fear somewhere left of Pluto. Rollins should have caught up to him by now.

His bad shoulder slammed into a support and he gasped out a pained shout. Keeping his feet by grabbing that same support, he actually looked over his shoulder before sense kicked back in.

The laugh he heard didn't come from behind.

He had a panicked second of not wanting to let go of the beam. It was the only thing solid and real; a protection amidst all the nothing. But it would also be as good as a headstone if he didn't get the hell away from it.

It should have been easier to let go but damn, his hands were frozen to the wood and digging in. His breath hurt the way it pumped from his chest. More than any other sound he could hear his heart thumping – could feel the beat pounding beneath the third button down on his shirt. Somewhere, beyond the capsule of his fear, was Rollins. He couldn't hear him though. He sure as hell couldn't see him. The only thing he tasted was salt. Salt from the water. Salt from the sand. Salt from the blood after biting his tongue.

Something thumped on the sand a few feet to the left and he whirled towards it only to hear another chuckle at his back.

The tread was light but he could hear it now. Either Rollins was letting himself be heard or he hadn't been moving earlier.

Shawn spit and raised his chin as he pressed against the beam. “You know, my dad's a big worry potato these days. Hardly lets me out of sight for longer than twenty minutes.”

Laughter behind him again and he spun around – trying to keep Rollins before him.

“You trying to tell me daddy is going to save you?” Glass broke – a hollow, splintered sound.

Shawn held the beam as he edged around it; placed it between himself and Rollins. Pain in his head and shoulder. Pain ringing his throat in a choking noose. His face pressed hard against the beam. Hard enough to emboss the rough wood against his lips. It was freezing next to the water – icy cold with the sun leaving the sky.

It would be dark now, too. And under the pier, even the moonlight wouldn't reach them. Shawn puffed his cheeks, then let his breath out in a slow glide. Fingers trembling, he let go of the beam.

No sound from Rollins. But then, Shawn hadn't heard him earlier so maybe the guy was going all cat footed again.

Right now, Rollins knew where he was. Shawn had no clue, however, where the other man was standing. He could be an inch away for all he could tell. The balance needed to be weighed more in his favor. A lot more. It would help if Gus were there. Not that he wanted Gus going head to head with a greasy baddie but his best friend would provide the perfect amount of weight to the scales that tipped back and forth between survival and pathetic scary death.

One step back. Still close enough to reach forward and touch home base. Another step. He could press his fingertips against the beam if he stretched.

His heel sank into softer sand. He was on his own. A step forward would bring him back within grasping distance to the beam. He wanted to hug his arms around it like a kid clinging to his daddy's legs.

“Are you afraid?”

Shawn jumped and jerked away from his safety. It wasn't safe any longer – the voice had been right in front of him. He heard the swipe through the air and felt the lightest scrape across the collar of his shirt. His feet tangled on something, seaweed or driftwood, he didn't know but he started to trip just as the air wisped again – and a sharp edge seared across his throat.

No time left to hope Rollins was just as blind as he was, he twisted as he fell and was just able to get his right hand down to save him from a debilitating face-plant. He couldn't wait for his breath to come back. Rollins meant to end it. Right now.

The toes of his sneakers dug grooves in the sand as he gave up on quiet and snatched onto desperation.

He heard nothing. He'd been chased before, also in the dark. That pursuer had snarled and yelled and puffed curses between gasps of breath. He'd almost caught his prey before a wide based tree had become a sanctuary for a few hours. Long enough to slow the bleeding.

He was bleeding. More than a scratch too, he could feel wet on his chest that was too sticky for sweat. His body struck solid wood and he tumbled around it. He used both hands to break his fall this time and grunted when the shock of hitting the ground reopened the agony in his shoulder. He felt the pain of trying to breathe rasping in his lungs. Terror was making it worse. He scrubbed at his eyes with his palms, frantic for anything – even shadows – anything that would tell him where to go.

“I'm coming for youuu...” Sing-songy whisper, he couldn't place the direction and he crab crawled backward until his shoulders hit a flat surface. He'd been moving uphill for several seconds but hadn't thought about his direction until now. He'd reached the base of the pier. Swiping his hand to to the left, he struck the wide base of a support beam – bone dry this far from the water. Grasping to the right, he felt the angled corner of the pier.

He was trapped.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	12. After the Credits Roll

His back was plastered to the wall, his shirt plastered to his skin. Heels had dug into the softness beneath as if he could force himself right through the damp wood and to safety beyond.

“Help...” His voice cracked – thin from the earlier throttling. He wasn't going to save himself, all that remained was the desperate hope there was somebody close enough and willing enough to play hero. His right hand clamped over the split skin at the base of his throat. What he could only assume was a broken bottle had gashed just shy of fatal from the amount of blood pattering between his fingers.

“Help me!” He was bringing Rollins right to him. If Rollins didn't already know where he was. He didn't know what else to do. He was running out of time in too many ways. Time was seeping down the front of his shirt.

He crammed himself into the space created between the wall and the support beam. Hardly enough room for his body but the tight space was a security he could lie himself into believing he had. He was trembling. Cold and terror were a double whammy misfiring nerves and raising pebbled flesh. He wasn't used to fear like this. He wasn't used to not having a plan – even if the plan was created on the fly. He always had a plan.

Feet pulled in close and bent his legs against his body. His right hand remained around his throat – his left sandwiched between his thighs and belly. He barely felt his shoulder, the wound numb. The numb was starting to work through his limbs. Maybe... maybe it wouldn't even hurt when Rollins killed him.

Tugging his left arm free, Shawn dug through the sand around him. There had to be something! A rock or a pointy shell or a rusty piece of fishing tackle. Sand. Just more sand. He rapped his head back against the wall and immediately winced. There wasn't near enough hair on his scalp to create a buffer between the wood and his cracked skull.

“I seeee youuu...”

Shawn swallowed hard and dug harder. Any sort of weapon! Anything, anything, anything...

0o0o0o0

Both of them were packing flashlights. Carlton lit the underside of the pier with a brilliant white glow while Henry's yellow beam focused on the tracks at their feet. Then both of them spun at the soft play of a voice – the plosives lost within the echo chamber they occupied.

Pinpointing location would have been tricky enough without the lack of sunlight. Their focused light made hard black shadows where they struck the supports, making them jump and dance when they panned between them.

Carlton pointed a direction to Henry, glad to see the man didn't fight him on splitting up. Angling up to the left while Henry went right, he moved from beam to beam as he closed in on where he thought the voice might have come from. He was almost to the base of the pier, his light spanning out across the broad wall before him. A scrape of sound and he whirled, weapon at the ready as his flashlight caught on a figure crouched behind one of the last beams. Face bone pale and covered in scratches. “God, Spencer...”

“Lassie?” The voice that squeezed free was mostly breath. Something struck Carlton as very wrong, more than the wheeze of his name, but he had no time to discover _what_ before Spencer's head cocked. Then, suddenly, his face twisted in high panic.

“Lassie, look out!” Eyes going wide as he lifted a foot to turn, Carlton's body was slammed against the post he'd been facing. He lost the flashlight but was able to keep the gun. The bright beam from the lost light shot up from the ground and sliced the space in half.

Elbow snapping back into midsection, Carlton wrestled with his attacker who seemed to be going for a choke hold, though the grip was wrong. It wasn't until he flashed on the murky brown glass and sharp sour stink of beer that he realized what Rollins was attempting. And as he grabbed at the wrist wielding the broken bottle, he finally realized what was wrong with Spencer. The jagged edges trembled near his eyes. Though blurred in close proximity, he could make out the droplets of blood still wet along the broken points.

He kicked back one leg, trying to wrap it around the back of Rollins' knee. The razor sharp glass edged closer towards his left eye. Releasing with one hand, he clawed backward and punched his thumb into Rollins's eye instead. The other man yelled and jerked back, letting Carlton wrench free. Spinning, he brought the side of his hand down on Rollins' wrist, numbing the fingers clutched around the bottle neck. Though he lost his weapon, Rollins wasn't done – launching himself at Carlton and once more bashing him into the support beam.

Black and blue smeared in his vision and he stumbled, bracing his feet wide apart. Fingers clawed at his jaw and wrenched his head to the left. Insane flash image of Bela Lugosi driving his giant fangs into his neck, he twisted in the hold that'd been weakened by the blow to the wrist. Sand arced up from the sweep of their feet – showering Spencer where he sat huddled against the wall, hand tight to his throat.

Long scratches dragged into Carlton's flesh as he ripped away from Rollins and pivoted, a rabbit punch catching the man in the larynx. Flattened to the sand, his breath wheezing, Rollins gave up the fight and Carlton was able to drag him to a crossbeam and cuff his hands over his head.

Running steps from the other side of the pier and a jerking light flickering as Henry ran towards them. Either the man had wandered to the closest Starbucks for a coffee and lemon cake or the fight had wrapped up faster than it had seemed while exchanging punches.

Gasping still, his various wounds stinging, Carlton braced his hand on the beam next to Spencer and knelt down in front of him. Shawn seemed to be staring, though his eyes were out of focus and just not quite... right. His head kept tilting, slow movements that made Carlton think of a satellite dish.

“Spencer?” His hand moved towards the fingers pressed against Shawn's throat. “I'm just going to take a look at that wound...”

Henry's voice, a cannon releasing its payload as he panted up to the scene. So the man had energy limits after all. The flashlight lit on Rollins first and Carlton was about to ask for Henry to spare a few lumens his way just as his hand came to rest on Shawn's knuckles.

A thrash of kicked sand as Shawn cowed away – one hand flying out from his body to swing at the air before him. The other stayed in place, drying blood or fear of its loss keeping his palm glued to his throat. Carlton jerked back from the wild fist, the knuckles missing his nose by a hair.

“Woah, calm down! Hey, hey, easy!” He grabbed Shawn's wrist only to have the other hand tear away from its perch and catch him across the cheek in brain jarring slap.

“Shawn!” Henry's bellow stilled them both.

Carlton shook his head to shake free the fresh burst of stars. Feeling a tug, he blinked past the fading blur to see Shawn reaching out – hands seeking. His face was stiff in concentration, his breath heaving up from his chest. Slowly, his left hand made contact with Carlton's lapel, then climbed upward. The urge to extract himself was immediate, but Carlton only leaned away slightly before firming his jaw. Delicate, nothing like previous groping during so-called visions, the fingertips grazed across his cheeks, nose, and finally to the curved down bow of his mouth. It was an uncomfortable intimacy, but the result was a sudden slacking of taut muscles. Hands dragging back down from his face, Shawn gripped Carlton by the forearms and trembled.

“Henry?” Looking over his shoulder, forcing his voice soft, Carlton waited as the older man approached. Harder than he'd have thought, he had to grab Shawn by the wrists to force freedom, surprised he didn't leave fistfuls of wool blend behind.

A quietness to his speech Carlton didn't recall ever hearing from the man, Henry changed places with the detective and spoke to his son. Carlton didn't even attempt to hear the words.

Instead, he took a few steps away and made another call to request an ambulance. He could already see the lights from several squad cars nearing their position. He could afford a minute to just breathe.

He understood the workings of law. He knew the strategy of lawyers and the limits of judges. But in that moment, he wished he could bring those caretakers of justice to the scene he occupied. To let them see what he saw. A murderer they'd allowed to go free and his terrified victim, curled together on the blood peppered sand.

0o0o0o0

Four hours in the ER. Thirty-two stitches to close the gash below his throat. They wanted to keep him overnight for observation. His son wanted to go home. Cushioned chair somehow the hardest surface he'd been forced to sit on, single tattered copy of Prevention read through three times, Henry let himself be swayed by the tired pleading on Shawn's face.

Mostly carrying his sagging son into the house after their silent drive from the hospital, Henry considered the repeated advice of the ER doctor to leave Shawn in their care. Stairs out of the question, he detoured them to the couch and helped Shawn down to the cushions before heading to the kitchen for a bottle of water. Back in the living room, he placed the open bottle in Shawn's hand and watched him take a couple sips before setting it on the end table. Nothing left to do but let him sleep.

Henry wouldn't have minded sleep himself. He wasn't hungry – he'd broken down and ordered some sort of marinara meatball thing at the hospital cafeteria of which he'd eaten only a few bites before tossing the rest. Shawn had been in and out while recovering but an offer of something to eat had been answered with a head shake.

Patting his hand to the left, Shawn found the pillow Henry had brought him, along with a light blanket, and pulled it into his arms.

No mystery why the kid had been so adamant about coming back home against his doctor's wishes. Not just a shared aversion for staying in a hospital longer than it took to sew up a wound. He forgot so easily. It wasn't just the smell and activity of the place. The hospital food and nurses barging in every hour to wake up and examine a patient they were holding there for the purpose of rest. It was so much more simple than that. The simplicity of reaching out a hand and knowing whether it would meet a wall or lamp or open air. Shawn wanted to be someplace familiar. And after a whole evening spent anywhere but, how could Henry deny him that stability?

“I've... I've been thinking about it.” Voice rough as he spoke, Shawn hadn't said anything since his rescue beneath the pier. Henry lifted his head, watching as Shawn bent forward – blind stare directed downward.

“What have you been thinking about, son?”

Shrug. Head tilt. Eyes that saw nothing, closed. “Remember... remember when Gramma died?”

Henry swallowed at the small ache up through his throat. Eighteen years gone and it still hurt. His father hadn't been the same man since. None of them had. Her boys.

Shawn swallowed and his eyes opened again. A reflex only, what he saw wouldn't change. “I can remember everything about her, you know?” His lip quirked. “Like those glasses she wore. She always had them on a chain around her neck but she never actually wore them. Said they were there just in case her vision crapped out on her someday, ha.” He laughed but it was bound with sadness. Irony.

Henry smiled though, that image of his mother than he hadn't had in a long time suddenly bringing her to life in the room between the two of them. He could even smell the heady vanilla musk perfume she liked to dab on her wrists on Sunday mornings. “We're going to the house of the Lord, Henry. Wouldn't do to smell like a barnyard.” Not that she ever did. Not that she ever could.

“I... remember going to the church. After she'd...” He rubbed his nose. “It was bright when we walked in. I could hear the organ playing. Her... casket... was at the top of the stairs and covered in white flowers. The lid was up. I remember looking away. I didn't... I couldn't see her that way.” He hugged the pillow tight and sniffed. “I saw her, for just second, anyhow. Her profile. Even though I closed my eyes it's still here.” He tapped his temple with one finger. “It will always be here.”

He sat up then, hands twisting in the pillowcase. One leg began to twitch, the heel of his sock covered foot making a soft tattoo of rhythm against the hardwood.

“See... when I think of her? That's where it all stops. That last picture of her... when she was dead. And... and that how... and...” Fingers scrubbed at his eyes. “And that's how it feels now with... with everyone. The memory just... stops. I only know how you looked before, when I could still see you. But what about tomorrow, or next year, or in ten years? It feels... it feels like everyone died cause nothing will ever change again.”

Henry rubbed his face. What Shawn was going through, he had no true grasp of understanding. A midnight walk to the bathroom, too lazy to turn on the hall light and earning a bashed shin was hardly a comparison to having no option for light whatsoever.

Loss of beauty was the first things the sighted mourned when confronted with blindness. No more sunsets. No more ocean views. No more watching their favorite TV program. They didn't consider the incidentals. Like the ability to walk into a strange room and navigate the space regardless of furniture arrangement. Like shopping for clothes and finding a shirt based on the pattern rather than by the fit. Like eating dinner and knowing whether you were grabbing the salt or pepper to season your meal.

But even those things were nothing. They weren't what tormented his son the most.

“Dad, I need to see.” He whispered. His hands rubbed at his eyes.

Henry knotted his hands together. “I know, kiddo.” They'd make another appointment. Maybe Doctor Belic would have other treatment suggestions, or would know a specialist...

“Please, dad... I need to see... please...” Shawn was starting to pant. Hands still rubbed at his eyes – heels of his palms grinding at his lids. Henry moved from the chair to sit beside his son. He placed his fingers against the back of Shawn's hands.

“I need to see! I need to see! I need to see! I need to see!” Full panic took over as Shawn yanked away, pushing to his feet and lunging towards the mantle where his hands began grasping at the items collected there – sweeping across the pictures and knocking them to the floor, fragile boats falling beneath his wild reach. Henry moved after him to pull him back as those fingers scrabbled against the brick. “I need to see-I need to see!”

“Shawn, stop, kiddo! Come on, I got you...”

Finally clasping Shawn's arms at the wrists he was unprepared when Shawn whirled back on him to beat his fists against his shoulders, though the blows were undirected – still trapped behind the black panic of his desperation as he screamed to break out of the consuming dark of his world. Not since five years old had Henry been confronted by his child's fear of the dark – back now in sudden and heart wrenching finality – a world no longer banished with a superhero nightlight and the promise that the monsters in the closet weren't real.

“PLEEEASE!!”

And at the terrified wail, his only option left was to wrap his arms around the trembling body and hold him tight – hold him through the anguished sobs and attempts to break away – attempts to run towards anything to escape when couldn't be escaped. Until finally the fight was gone and all that remained was the despair.

“I'm blind, dad! I'm blind-I'm blind-I'm blind!”

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	13. Same Room Different Day

Shawn had slept for close to fourteen hours after his meltdown. The longest, by far, that he'd slept since losing his sight. Henry had watched over him for the first two before giving in to the urgent call for bed. He didn't remember dreaming. Shawn had still been asleep when he'd woken seven hours later. Not wanting anything to disturb his son, he'd eaten his cereal on the deck; blanket over his legs with the chill of early morning still in the air.

Too early to call the clinic, during breakfast, he'd had to wait an hour to speak to Belic's receptionist. There'd been no openings that day but the following afternoon had been free. Henry had taken it.

A day later, he sat with his son in the clinic waiting room. Smaller and much quieter than the waiting room at the main hospital, there were only two other people sitting in nearby chairs. One of the women sharing a padded bench had smiled at Henry when he and Shawn had entered. He'd nodded back before guiding Shawn to a soft chair.

Another advantage of the clinic was a short wait. Only five minutes in and a nurse came for them. The room she led them to was empty. Henry helped Shawn sit on the paper covered table, unnerved at silence. Still no words from his son other than a muted “good morning” earlier.

But then, he didn't have anything to say back. He couldn't offer false hope. He just couldn't.

There were a couple of wicker chairs in the room as well as a rolling stool, but Henry chose to sit next to Shawn on the bed, his hand resting down on one bouncing knee. Again his attention moved to the vicious gash just above Shawn's collar. Stitches crisscrossed along the five inches of reddened tissue. A large clear dressing had been placed over it in the ER, but Shawn had removed it when he'd had a reaction to the adhesive.

A gentle knock before the door pushed open. Henry didn't miss the small jump from his son at the sudden sound. Standing from the bed but keeping close to Shawn's side, Henry shook Doctor Belic's hand after the man closed the door behind himself.

“Henry, Shawn. How are you feeling today, Shawn? I heard about the incident over the weekend. Nasty stuff; I'm relieved you're alright.”

Shawn hadn't answered the question but Belic didn't seem to be waiting for one as he moved closer to the bed. “I'm just going to take a quick look at that wound. I'm going to place my hands on your collar bone.”

Shawn still flinched at the contact but otherwise seemed calm. Henry knew from the handshake how cold Belic's hands were – probably from washing up before entering the room.

Head tilted back and top lip pulling up from his teeth, the doctor lightly felt around the stitches. Shawn didn't flinch again but his eyes squinted. Even with medication he was still stiff and hurting. When Belic finished and stepped back, Shawn let his head sink again with a grunt.

“Looks like they did a good job. It's a little red but that should clear up in a few days. However, if your pain gets worse I want you to call the clinic so we can schedule an appointment.”

Henry acknowledged the instructions while Shawn sat quietly. Well, not entirely quietly; his hand had located the edge of the paper he was sitting on and he'd begun tearing a narrow strip free. In moments he had a piece roughly the size of a dollar bill. Holding it close to his belly, he was able to use his other hand to start folding.

Henry watched his son while Belic lifted Shawn's chart from the table and began flipping through it.

“You're still taking the Dilaudid?”

Shawn made a small twist as he folded the paper into thirds. When he didn't respond, Henry nodded instead. “Yes.”

The doctor made a check next to the medication. “How about the Fioricet? Oh wait, you stopped taking that because of the headaches?”

Henry nodded again. “That's right.”

Completely focused on his project, Shawn creased the odd shape down the middle before unfolding that portion again and adjusting the flaps on either side. The last two medications confirmed, Belic set down the folder and picked up the familiar pen light.

Just as he moved in to examine his patient, Shawn made the last fold. “Here you go, doc.”

Henry felt a knot twist in his throat even as he smiled. Belic set aside the light to take the tiny boat instead. A little ragged and uneven, it was still easily recognizable. Better than Shawn's first effort when Henry had taught him how to fold the shape when Shawn was eight.

Still looking at his gift, Belic grinned. “You sure are psychic, aren't you.” He laughed, delighted. “I just bought my first boat last week! Took my boys out yesterday afternoon for a short trip up the coast. They had a blast!”

Henry knew that smile and Shawn lost some of the depression that had clung around his eyes the past few days. A subtle step towards the doctor and Henry inhaled the air around him. Barely there. Easily overlooked under the stronger smells of antiseptic and powder but... boat cleaner and gasoline.

Belic set the small boat carefully on the counter next to the jar of long Q Tips. While his back was turned, Henry glanced towards his son and almost winked at him. The warmth at their shared conspiracy disappeared in the sadness that Shawn couldn't see his approval.

Then the doctor was back, light held in his fingers as he stepped close to the bed.

“Okay, Shawn. If you can put up with a bit of handling, I want to get a nice look at those eyes.”

The temporary smile had slipped away again. Wanting to both keep out of the way while sticking close, Henry moved to the other side of the bed and placed one hand against Shawn's back. He felt Shawn lean back just a little – his frame losing an amount of tension.

The exam took several minutes. Now and then Shawn would stiffen, when Belic leaned too close or when a touch caught him by surprise, and Henry would rub his back until he relaxed once more. When Belic finally stepped away, Shawn exhaled a breath and sagged.

The next instrument Belic brought to the bed was the one used to test eye pressure. Knowing how much his son hated that test, Henry moved his hand to Shawn's shoulder. As old school as the man was with his pen light, he was equally as comfortable with more complex equipment. Belic instructed Shawn to rest his chin on the curved plastic and Henry forced himself to let his son feel out the device with his fingers until he found the small dip. As hard as it was to accept his son's blindness it was at least as hard to allow him to figure things out for himself. He'd reverted back to that new father, terrified for his tottering son as he wobbled on fat legs towards the edge of the coffee table. All he'd been able to imagine, then, was that delicate baby skull smacking the corner of the table when those legs gave out. It was the same now; his mind creating a scene where Shawn, unable to see the leg of a chair or a curl in the rug, stumbled and struck his head or landed on his bad arm.

It was literally enough to keep him up at night, concerned when he'd hear Shawn moving down the hall towards the bathroom – picturing him taking a bad step and tumbling down the stairs.

“How have you been sleeping lately?”

The surprise of the question coming just after his thoughts, Henry, for a second, thought Belic was speaking to him.

Shawn jerked as the air pumped against his eye. Fast blinking at the rush of induced moisture and he settled, shoulders tensed, until the second and final pump of air set him blinking again.

“I sleep, I wake up, and sometimes I eat waffles. Or two donuts covered in syrup if the waffles are gone.”

No matter how often Shawn worried his father, he spent an equal amount of time aggravating him. Still, the emotion lost its strength every time Henry looked at his son, the swollen red crease of torn flesh in easy sight. Waffling. Too appropriate as both descriptive as well as distraction. Maybe Belic was easily swayed by the charm, subdued as it was, but it would take more than a paper boat to send Henry down the twisting trail of non sequiturs.

“He hasn't been sleeping well...”

“Daaad...” Meager return of his whine – a trace of his fight coming back in the wriggle of discomfort and the jerk of his chin from Belic's fingers when the doctor tried to guide him to the next test.

Henry, allowing Shawn a moment of rebellion, didn't back down from information sharing. “He'll be up for two days, and then crash for ten hours. Other times he'll fall asleep in the middle of the day for an hour or ten minutes...”

“It's called napping, dad. You know, that thing you do from noon to four every weekend and after you eat dinner.” Shawn pulled away from Belic again, one hand rubbing the blossom of reddened skin around his wound.

“Napping? Kid, you nearly have me checking your wrist for a pulse! I've been tempted to run your soda through the lab to see if someone slipped you horse tranquilizers!”

“Really? Tranquilizers? Dude, enough!” No longer directed at his father, Shawn snapped at Belic when the doctor, again, reached for his chin. Creating more space and abandoning caution, he abruptly jumped from the table and took three steps towards the wall – hands waving before him till they struck the plaster.

“Shawn...” It was the doctor that stopped Henry before more than his son's name could break free. The words he hadn't been allowed to say piled up like cars behind a jackknifed rig. The soft hand against his chest was only there a moment before Belic joined it with the other behind his back. A display of non confrontation that only Henry could benefit from.

“There's just one more test, Shawn. It will only take a moment and then you can take a break, alright?”

Henry was prepared for refusal. Prepared, too, for the flood of vindictive superiority that came when people misjudged their control over his son. His son. As if Henry needed guidance in how to manage his own child. Patting the kid on the head and telling him everything would be alright was an invitation to mischief. Belic would walk out of this with his stethoscope super glued to the back of his head.

“Promise?”

No sprinkles on top, no quirked lips, no wheedling. Whispered, and pitched in a tone that took Shawn from thirty three to fourteen when his voice had started to change and he'd stolen his father's razor to practice shaving.

“I promise. I'll even give you a lollipop when we're all done.”

The burst of anger gone that fast, Shawn smiled as the doctor led him back to the table. “Do you have one in pina colada?”

There was no relief that the outburst had resolved. Henry said nothing, arms crossed over his chest, as Shawn settled to the ragged paper and allowed himself to be moved into place.

As Belic promised, the test was completed within thirty seconds. When it completed, he kept his other half of his promise and handed Shawn a green lollipop – apologizing for only having green apple and cherry on hand. Shawn, unconcerned by the flavor options, immediately passed the candy to his father to unwrap it.

Tearing away the flimsy plastic, Henry returned the treat to his son's hand – already outstretched to take it back. Shawn let the stick poke out of his mouth while he sucked at the sweet, making something jar in Henry's chest when, for just a moment, those hazel eyes looked directly at him. But in another blink, the unfocused attention drifted on. Unseeing.

It was Belic's eyes that Henry looked to next. Looking for hope. Looking for answers. Henry was practiced in reading people. Guilt and innocence. Emotion and intent. But Belic was a doctor and just as apt at keeping his thoughts close to the vest. Nothing was given away at his look.

Shawn may seem focused on his candy, tongue and teeth working to shape the disc into a somewhat lopsided Pacman, but silence from Shawn was usually silence with a purpose. Unable to distract himself in the way that came naturally to him he was forced to fall back on a less used but no less honed skill. Never one to shy from eavesdropping Henry had no doubt that his son was soaking up every word spoken around him. For that reason, Henry tried to ask his questions without opening his mouth – using eyebrows and the tilt of his head to convey what he wanted to know.

Belic, showing an aptitude for reading Henry's gestures that far... far surpassed Shawn's less than stellar interpretations, leaned back against counter and...

“I can literally hear your eyebrows doing the Worm. I know you'd like to keep this a big bad secret and all but, seeing as this is my appointment, my doctor, and my _freaking_ eyes... I'd like to be kept in the loop. If you don't mind.”

It was when his voice remained calm that Shawn's anger was at its worst. After delivering his input, he resumed munching his treat – though by now it had been reduced to a nub. Henry, in his bid of protectiveness, was left feeling shame instead. He had no right to try to keep anything from Shawn.

Instead, he put his hands in his pockets and rested one hip against the edge of the bed. Shawn, though he seemed relaxed, had stiffened his spine and was digging his hand into the hem of his shirt.

“The head injury is healing very nicely. There's no swelling and though you'll have a scar, your hair will pretty much hide it when it grows back in completely.”

Henry struggled to sit through the beginning sentence. It burned in him to demand that the man get to the point. It was noticeable that Shawn did not. Maybe the hesitation was a mercy for his son but, to Henry, it had the feeling of putting a bullet through the kneecaps rather than a clean shot to the heart.

“As for your eyesight...”

Unable to keep his distance, Henry moved closer to his son – placing his hand against one bunched shoulder. Shawn didn't shrug him away.

“I don't want to give you false hope. However... there was some reaction of the pupil during the exam.”

Henry couldn't stop himself. “Are you saying Shawn might get his sight back?”

“Henry,” Belic held one hand up, “this is what I was saying about not getting your hopes up. There just isn’t a definitive answer that I can give you right now. Yes, there is healing, but whether that means Shawn will regain his sight or not, I just can't say. I know it isn't what you were hoping to hear. I can tell you what I've told you before. Shawn is young and healthy and his chances are good that he could regain some vision. But you need to be aware that there's a chance he might not.”

Turning to lift the large folder from the counter again, Belic opened the cover and pulled a few sheets of paper free.

“Shawn, I still want to urge you to sign up for a few of the rehabilitation programs offered through the hospital. Regardless of what happens, they will help you with regaining your independence.”

Henry took the pages from Belic when Shawn didn't respond. “Thank you, doctor. We'll talk it over and make a decision later.” The first page was the name of the class and a list of meeting times. The second was a pamphlet from the same class filled with encouraging messages and hope. Since it wasn't printed in those familiar raised bumps the message clearly wasn't intended for the recipients that needed it most.

He folded the paperwork into quarters and wedged them into his back pocket. “Is there anything you can give him to help him sleep... more normally?” The expected complaint never came. Still hunched over his knees, Shawn seemed lost in his own head.

Belic sighed. “I'm hesitant to prescribe anything. From what you've described, it sounds like Shawn has a type of sleep disorder that is common among those without sight. Without the ability to regulate his circadian rhythm, his body thinks the day is longer than twenty-four hours. Unfortunately there is no current treatment for this for someone, like Shawn, who has no light detection whatsoever.”

Shawn's head lifted then and, to Henry's surprise, he reached forward with his hand – holding it in place until Belic took it in a shake.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. I'd like to schedule your next appointment in three months. I'll have my assistant get you an exact date.”

Sliding from the bed, Shawn started for the door. Henry reached for him when he wobbled.

“I just want to go home.”

Henry patted his arm.

“Okay.”

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	14. Every Season Has

This was a new sight. Thought he'd seen it all with regards to the faker, Lassiter was stuck trying to find a response to the visual presented by Spencer and his ever present partner. Gus was walking ahead of his friend, speaking nonstop though they were still too far for any of the words to be heard. Shawn, following immediately behind, had his left hand on Guster's shoulder.

Conditioning had made their appearance at a crime scene unexpected. Spencer's infirmity and resultant mood spiral had made this little cameo a novelty. Weeks since he'd seen either one of them. Closer now, Lassiter could hear the rapidly spoken instructions guiding Spencer over the wet rocky path.

A few missteps, quite a few actually, but the grip on Guster held tight and kept him from a fall. The circle of cops, Lassiter noticed, had all turned from study of the scene to staring at the two approaching men. Irritated himself to be caught out in a lack of focus, Lassiter griped at the group to get back to work and be snappy. Then, leaving them behind, he walked towards the duo to offer a personal greeting.

“What the hell are you two clowns doing here?”

Spencer, of course, grinned widely. “Lassie! Gus, can't you just taste the love in the air? Told you he'd want us here!”

Guster, smart enough to appear nervous, frowned in response. “Trust me, Shawn, he does not want us here.”

Shawn snorted. “Gus, don't be Shia LaBouf's left hand. Of course Lassie wants us here! I can feel his need radiating off him like microwaves. And suddenly I want a Hot Pocket.”

Lassiter could feel the stupid saturating past his hairline along with moisture from the light rain. Knew he should have used a more potent hair product that morning. Another few minutes of this and he'd be commandeering the foil wrappers from Officer Nick's Reese's stash to make a protective hat.

“Fine, you go get a Hot Pocket. Meanwhile I've got a body that needs my attention.”

He could still hear them as he stalked away.

“Oh, is it Jessica Biel? Gus, is it Jessica Biel?”

0o0o0

Not much of a dressing down. Lassiter was off his game or coming down with a serious case of COPD if his attempt to run them off hadn't even included threats.

“Dude, I think he was smiling when he left.”

“Really?” Proving habit stronger than circumstance, Shawn tried to peer around his arm before Gus, suffering from the same malady, slapped him down.

Not one to abide a sting to his pride or flesh, Shawn whapped back, instigating a minor scuffle with neither one coming out the winner. The spat was broken up by a roaring “CUT IT!” from a certain Head Detective.

“Quick, tell me everything you see.”

Do what? That bullet must have taken more than sight if Shawn thought his best bud ready and willing to caress icky, bloated corpse with his innocent eyes. Icky, bloated, and _naked_ corpse no less.

Aptitude for mind reading occasionally scary in its accuracy, Shawn nudged him with a punch to the lower back. “Come on! Man up and get closer!”

Gus twisted away from those pummeling knuckles and did his best not to make a fist. “You man up! How about you go over there instead!”

“Uh, hello, hard to visions without vision! We went over this on the way here!”

“You said you wanted to come here because you were craving funnel cakes!”

“No, I said if we were coming here we could also _get_ funnel cakes.”

“I don't see any vendors, Shawn!”

“Well I don't see anything at all!”

And what had begun as a familiar and comfortable hissing exchange became a painful return to their current reality; the sting of it worse than a slap to the face by Thor's hammer. Shawn 1 Gus 0. He had a feeling he wouldn't be getting any funnel cakes.

Fingers once more tight on his shoulder, he proceeded on towards the crime scene. CSU crab walked and crouched – cameras spitting out white light that reflected against the powder of fine rain. Further away, Lassiter was speaking to a group of officers and, for that second, paying them no attention at all.

Shawn, impatient, rapidly smacked the flat of his hand against Gus's bicep. “Come on, come on, come on!”

Gus shook off his hand. “I got it, okay? Just relax!” Yeah, he could do this. He'd faked being a psychic before. Briefly. Granted it'd been to impress his Uncle Burton but even the cops had more or less bought it...

“Gus!”

“Dude, I said I got it!” Buddy in tow, he crept along the far edge of the scene, eyes locked on everything except the pasty mound of rigor stiff flesh at the center. The flowers sprouting from a row of ornamental pots, while fragrant, weren't enough to mask the heady perfume of day old death. The only comfort was that the stench seemed to be getting to Shawn just as much, nose scrinching up in a furrow.

“Dude, is this what crime scenes always smell like?” He whispered.

Still not looking at the body, Gus knelt beside a shiny in the grass and nearly sent Shawn into a face plant as he pulled him down with him. Moving some grass aside with a pen, he finally identified the object.

“What? What did you find?” Shawn started to reach forward only to be blocked by Gus's hand.

Shaking his head, Gus sat back on his heels.

“I think I just solved the case.”

0o0o0

Grass made barely a sound under smooth soled footwear, especially with much louder sounds close by. Gus's breathing, for example. Still, Shawn knew when Lassiter's stomp had taken him within poking range.

He waited. Waited for the in-drawn suck of air and the little hint of cinnamon breath preceding the tirade in development.

“Spe...”

“I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT!”

Another wait. Anticipation was a tool as useful as a flip comb and twice as elegant. For this, sight would help but wasn't absolutely required. Besides, he had Gus. He leaned to the right with a whisper from the side of his mouth so soft bats would have struggled to hear it.

“They all looking?”

The response back was just as soft. “Yup.”

Showtime.

“I sense this man was murdered!” Full on spastic hijinks shelved in favor of safety zone regulations – no good putting on a half-time show if he tripped over one of the dancing girls – Shawn kept to the basics with one hand to his temple. He wished he felt better about the limelight. He'd been so convinced this would make it all feel normal again. Complete trust in Gus, he hadn't been surprised his buddy had tripped over the evidence so fast. One of the reasons he insisted on trying to make a scene before CSU got too handsy with the evidence.

He opened his mouth again. It was there. It was all there just waiting to spill. Unveil the criminal, get back at least a bit of respect for his skills... save his job...

But...

But he hadn't done anything. It had been Gus. It had all been Gus. And while stealing the scene was second nature to him there was something about it, this time, that made him feel kinda... sick.

He couldn't do this.

Shuffling now. They were waiting. They wouldn't wait long and even as he thought that, Lassiter started to growl.

“Spencer...”

“You know what? I'm... I'm not the guy you should be hearing from.”

Fingers yanked him off point and even shook him a little. “What are you doing?”

Palm up and out to block the hissy spatter. Murmur rising up around him he suddenly wished for a gavel to bang. And a desk. And some bad ass robes. He turned towards the fast breaths.

“I'm making this nice. Just... trust me.”

Straightening up, his hand lifted again, this time facing out.

“My associate... and the best investigator I've ever known. And my best friend. Burton Guster will now tell you the identity of the killer.”

“Shawn!” The fingers got pinchy this time as they dug into his arm, this time pulling him so hard his feet pinwheeled to keep him upright. “Dude, what the hell?”

“Would one of you get on with it!?” Lassie, never one for patience, was clearly at the gun drawing stage.

Shawn turned enough to get his hand on what he hoped was Gus's shoulder. “It's okay. Come on, man. This is your time.” And with a little push, and the feeling of loss mixed with pride, he stepped back.

He could imagine Gus, standing on a little mound of earth with all those officers staring at him. Overhead the clouds would be gray, but just starting to break apart given the bit of heat he could feel from sunbeams sneaking through. His buddy hadn't spoken yet, still fidgeting he was sure. Arms straight at his sides while he gulped and twitched and, by now, had probably glared behind himself a few times. Shawn grinned.

And then those deep, cleansing, breaths. Delicate phaps – the sound of fingers striking one another as Gus shook the tremblies out of his hands. And he was ready.

“Hello. I-I have an announcement to make.”

Shawn could hear more shuffling along with Lassie's not quite muffled “Dear God...” He also felt something else. The absolute certainty that his friend had looked back again. Only, instead of glaring, the look was no doubt closer to panic. Smiling in return, Shawn gave a thumbs up and a whispered encouragement. “You can do this, buddy.”

Another rustle and the snappy crack of vertebra as Gus straightened.

“I know who the killer is.”

0o0o0

Odd for them. Weird. Strange. Baffling... even. Bizarre. Yeah, bizarre.

Not one word. No asking what they should have for lunch from Gus. No random observations about hair and how that impacted all areas of life from himself.

More of the same when they arrived at the office. He assumed it was the office. He was pretty sure it was the office. Gus would have a tough time replicating the exact ratio of cinnamon to sugar to cardamon that the churro cart guy used in his signature treat. Funny thing, the ability to determine the components of a recipe didn't translate into an ability to cook it.

For the first time the glorious smell of spicy fried yumminess didn't draw him all grasshopper to honey. Hand in place on his seeing-eye Gus, he listened to his steps change from the scraping drag on concrete to the squeaky creak of hardwood. He let go just past the door. Here, at least, he could find his way around without help.

He passed his desk. Passed the TV. Passed the coffee machine, no need for burned knuckles Part Two. He walked until he felt the temperature change. Reaching up, he placed his hands flat against the glass.

Warm. If he stood that way long enough, he swore he could see the light.

He listened to papers crinkle and drawers slide open. Gus was being incredibly proactive with his desk tidying.

“You were pretty badass today.”

Drawers slid shut again. Tap, tap, click, tap.

“Yeah.”

A whole word. This felt like backwards progress. Shawn rubbed his shoulder. Still hurt even a month after he'd taken off his sling. He dropped his fingers and held them out towards the the window again. Knuckles bumped their way up the wood frame until they found the slick glass. The boardwalk was only a few feet from the office. Beyond it, the sand stretched out bumpy and soft until it met the ocean. What time was it? Was the sun starting to set? Or was it early in the day still?

He wanted to see it. He wanted to see it more than he wanted anything in the whole world. He could feel the panic bubble in his throat starting to grow and he breathed hard, holding it down. He wanted to see! Please, God, please!

“Why did you do that?”

The lurch forward bashed his nose against the glass; Gus sneaking up like a ghost in slippers. The panic shriveled at the gentle question, terrifying with proximity.

“You know that thing you always say when you're trying to impress clients? Something about getting your bells on? Well now I'm thinking that's a good idea.” Chest rub to make sure his heart hadn't actually thrust itself into his sternum before he felt around for one of the recliners. “And why did I do what, Burton?”

Playing stupid. He could do that like a magician. Sure, there were times he legitimately didn't have an answer for something. For example, what meercats ate for breakfast. Turducken? Or what five times eight was. But in this instance, he not only knew the what, but the why.

The smack of lips gave away the depth of wrathful indignation for the use of a moniker only mothers, uncles, and the occasional hot woman were permitted to utter. Only seconds before his own less than flattering name would be weaponized against him. Middle, bequeathed by a father who thought to christen his baby boy both with his career and his nom de plume. Shawn Henry Spencer was considered the height of curses in every way the term applied.

“Admit it, you thought it was fun, right?”

“Fun? Bungee jumping while someone stands behind you with a knife of the rope? I was scared out of my damn mind! I am not Gladys Knight, Shawn!”

“What, you're saying you'd rather be a Pip? Really? Come on, you're the one that found the diamond earring. You're the one with the sweet cocoa globe filled with more celebrity trivia than US Weekly. You're the one that knew about Diana Hayes and the tragic death of her husband and _you_ are the one that remembered she'd been wearing that same pair of earrings at a press conference two weeks ago. It was solid work. I couldn't take that away from you, man.”

He couldn't tell if the snort was the flattering kind or the kind that was followed with an eye roll. Yeah, okay, so Shawn had been the one to sew the quilt of random observations together. Much as Gus hadn't wanted to look at the body, after a very intense, and fast, discussion, he'd done it. Moreso, he'd recognized the man. Apparently he was a butler or bodyguard or something. Hunching it up, Shawn was convinced Hayes had murdered her husband and that her butler, bodyguard... associate... had been putting the screws to her. Yadda, yadda, she hadn't wanted to pay and he hadn't gotten to live. Toss in a dead weight, according to Gus's estimating skills, of about two hundred and thirty pounds and Benny Blackmail wasn't budging from where he'd fallen. Hoping to slow the cops on identification, Hayes had stripped the guy buck and pitched his wallet.

Sure, 90% hypothesis... until Lassie and Jules had busted the murderess at the airport with a ticket to Europe.

“Are you giving up, then?”

Gus had moved while Shawn was thinking, his voice seeping from the left now. He wedging himself deeper into the chair. “Giving up? What?” Weak, trying to play the brush off when his heart wasn't in it. That was exactly the problem though, wasn't it.

“I...” He rubbed his palms against the arms of the chair. “I just need some time. I just... just want to sit here for a little while, okay? Just a little while.”

A hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, okay.”

Gus knew. He needed some time. Time to feel the space. Time to imprint smells and sensation long ago set in stone. But today... today those smells, those sensations were different. They had an added resonance. It was like Christmas when all the gifts had been opened and hugged and played with. When the food had all been eaten and the dishes washed and put away. When the needles had fallen from the tree and it was time to accept that they couldn't just keep that sparkling beauty in the living room forever.

The smell of pine would linger even after it was gone.

It had taken longer, this time, for him to accept that it was over. But today had made it plain, even to a man without sight.

Gus would give him a few minutes more. Gus would give him the rest of the day if that's what he wanted.

Because they both knew, after the lights had all been turned off, after the door had been closed and locked, that would be it. There'd be nothing left. When they left this place tonight, he'd wouldn’t be coming back.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


	15. Some Sort of Window to the Right

Shawn hadn't moved from the couch in hours, no reason to, being alone and without anyone to impress. He may not have been consulting anymore but Chief Vick hadn't seen the need to can his father, yet. Fewer hours than the initial agreement, his dad put in about three days a week, most of them half days or less. What he did at the station... well, Shawn had no clue. His guess leaned towards glorified secretary, too easy to imagine his father inducing tears from hardcore detectives over spelling errors on their reports.

The television was on, cycling through news, game shows, sitcoms, and back to news. His fingers slid along the slick cover of a magazine. Sports Illustrated, Home & Garden... he had no way of knowing. He'd never read again. He'd never imagined how much he'd miss that. His touch moved to the bottom of the stiff cover, felt the edge of the mailing sticker affixed there. He dug his nail beneath the edge, peeling it away until he heard the soft tear. He sighed and pushed the publication away. It slipped from the cushion and struck the floor, pages fluttering crisply until it settled.

With nothing else to pluck at, his fingers moved next to the nearly healed wound below his throat. He couldn't help himself, two fingers rubbing along the rough scab. He could still feel the trailing end of one stitch poking from the left side. He'd been told his body would absorb them. He still struggled to believe that. They felt like fishing line; how perfect was that? No doubt gave dad yet another boasting point about the validity of his favorite sport. Figures the old man would be into maiming innocent creatures for fun.

He wanted to turn the sound down on the TV again but an earlier toss of the remote towards the table had been a little too much like a baseball pitch ending in a foul to left field. Where it was, even his father probably wouldn't be able to figure out.

Suddenly, desperately, he wanted out of the house. Wanted to be anywhere else. His free hand spasmed on the arm of the couch before squeezing tight. And where, exactly, would he go anyhow? He breathed through the adrenaline surge, shaky and anxious as it very slowly ebbed.

He was controlling his panic, mostly, but it still sat close against his chest. He fought the twitchy aftermath by searching for an item to clutch. Anything. He didn't want to move from his corner – didn't want to admit to the security he took from keeping the couch arm and back pressed against him.

Tap tapping fingertips felt along the soft beads of nubbed material coating the aged blanket stuffed between his thigh and the cushion. Chewed fingernails dragged over the rougher fabric of the couch towards the table. Wood, cool and gritty with toast crumbs leftover from breakfast. Smooth plastic of his juice cup. He curled his fingers back and slid his hand back to rest on his leg.

News had gone to sports highlights. Dad would be home soon. He could wait. Sure, he'd just wait.

0o0o0

Henry sighed as he locked the door at his back. His toss of the keys was more habit than aim but the clank meant they'd reached the counter without incident. Black as a cave, again. Not unusual when he'd been living alone, there was an eeriness to entering a dark house knowing someone else was wandering inside. Someone with no clue he was in the dark because the dark was all he knew.

The light over the sink was good enough to brighten the kitchen. Still heavy with shadows, he could at least see his own hands as he opened the fridge. Beer or water, not often a tough choice but this time of the evening one beer would be two and two would put lead in his exhaustion. Tired enough on his days off with Shawn barely sleeping, he didn't want to leave the kid alone all day only to make an early night of it. Never imagined he'd replay the fall of 85' when Madeline had been out of town for three months and he'd been running himself ragged between work and home. Shawn couldn't be left alone and without the Gusters helping out by letting Shawn stay at their place after school, Henry wouldn't have known what to do. As it was, more than once he'd been forced to swing by the school and pick up his son. Station mascot to card sharp within the first week, the kid had endeared himself to the officers on Henry's shift.

He wondered if it wouldn't do Shawn some good to spend some time at the station again. He'd made one attempt, a week ago, to get back into his life. When Gus had brought him home again, Shawn hadn't said a word – only asked what was for dinner before heading to the living room. And as he'd done damn near since the start of this whole tragedy, Henry had kept his distance. Hadn't pressured, hadn't suggested. But maybe... maybe a little prodding was exactly what was required.

The open fridge door was starting to chill his arms. Settling on a bottle of water, Henry let it heave shut once more as he turned towards the living room. More dark, he could barely see Shawn's form on the couch. He was sitting, body hunched over his knees and the glow of the television lighting up the left side of his body. Whatever was on the screen flickered from deep red to blue to soft green. The sound was turned low, a mutter the dissolved words and made his footsteps easy to hear as Henry crossed into the room.

Shawn turned his head – his eyes moving in a slow drift towards the steps. “Hey.”

Henry held off a groan as he sat beside his son, springs giving beneath him with a familiar and homey squeak. Shawn wriggled to regain his balance and tugged at the blanket beside him – pulling it partway across his lap.

Leaning forward, Shawn glided his hand slowly across the coffee table until his fingers brushed the bottle of Sprite he'd been drinking. Henry watched while he took a sip. “You eat yet?”

A dribble of soda streaked down his chin and Shawn wiped it away with his sleeve before capping it and returning it to the table. “Wasn't really hungry...” Though the suddenly growling stomach made that comment a lie.

Henry chuckled. “Pizza?”

The tiniest return of a smile. “Hawaiian?”

Of course. He couldn't find the cordless phone at first glance so he reached around Shawn's back to flip the switch on the lamp.

Bright light scattered into the room. Shadows sank back, mysterious shapes became known possessions, and with a jerk, Shawn suddenly gasped.

Henry had no chance to move when Shawn's hand grasped out and caught his sleeve. Eyes wide open, shocked, he shook his head. “That didn't...” He gulped.

“Shawn?”

Breath shaky, his son tugged at the arm in his grip. “Dad... do... do that again.”

The desperation he saw overrode worries of another panic attack – it wasn't fear in the fingers clinging to his arm. It was hope.

He could feel his pulse slamming in his temples. Knowing exactly what Shawn wanted, Henry was forced to stand and reach with his other hand, left trapped in tight fists. Stretching, he gripped the bell at the end of the chain and clicked off the light. He waited. In that span of seconds, he was nearly as terrified as he'd been when he'd looked down a rocky hill and had seen his son, bleeding and unconscious, halfway to the bottom.

Shawn didn't urge him, his breathing a giveaway to his own tension. He couldn't pray, not with a mind still crippled by the agony his son had been dealt. He begged without direction – a plea to the dark. A plea against it. He knew he could stand forever with his fingers pinching that tiny chain. To hope but not know. Was that better than knowing without hope?

He pulled the chain.

Shawn didn't move. Starting to feel some pain from the awkward lean, Henry knelt in front of the couch instead – pulling his sleeve free to take both of Shawn's hands in his. He stared into his son's face.

“Kid?”

Breath whooshed out. Shawn closed his eyes, squeezed them tight. Then, slowly, they opened. And with another thick breath, he turned towards the lamp.

“Dad...”

Henry felt the hands squeeze his own tightly.

“Dad I...” His mouth quirked, a tremble of lips that twisted up into choking laugh, “I can see it...”

Henry couldn't respond. He sucked in a breath of his own. When it released, his eyes brimmed.

Unspeaking, he pulled his hands free and, reaching up, he cupped his son's face. He wasn't surprised at the feel of wet beneath his touch. Thumbs brushed at the small drops.

Moments later, Shawn's eyes trailed back to the light. Unblinking, he stared.

“I can see it.”

0o0o0

**3 Months Later**

Shawn pushed at the plastic rim of his glasses, again. Thick, black, and in desperate need of a skull and crossbones center of mass; less Buddy Holly territory and more Charlie Sheen. Major League era. However, he suspected that even an infusion of tiger blood wouldn't be enough to make this look hot.

He opened his eyes wide, staring at the text on the screen as it blurred out again. Pain through his head didn't help. Migraine, like a deadbeat roomie that crashed at his apartment and ate all his chips and stayed up till 4am playing Final Fantasy with the volume set on Van Halen.

Rubbing his eyes waylaid by the inch of glass impeding the attempt, the hooked the Ben Franklins with one finger and clunked them to his desk. Attempt number two didn't exactly clear things, his view even blurrier without the hated aid, but the dark was nice.

A few blinks and an attempt to read without help, eyes squinting to slits before he gave up and snatched the glasses again.

On the other side of the room, Gus tapped and tapped and slurped coffee and tapped some more. Oh, and sighed. A lot.

“One lamp, Shawn.”

“Really? Dude, it's like-”

“It is not like the surface of the sun in here.”

Shawn snorted. “I wasn't going to say that.”

“You've said it four times since lunch.” Standing, eyes locked on his buddy, Gus walked to the switch on the wall.

Shawn lifted one eyebrow.

Gus tipped back his head.

“You'd really go there, with me at this delicate point in my healing?”

Gus licked his tongue across his front teeth, clearly thinking about it. “Yes.” Reenactment of nuclear fallout ala Terminator, he'd swear on a copy of Zoobooks that he felt the blast strip the flesh from his eyeballs. In this case, he felt his scream was completely justified.

Across the room the front door slammed open hard enough to chip paint where the knob smacked the wall. The scream that had been fading to a hiss shrieked to full boil a second time.

“Jeez-Spencer! Dial it down for the love of all that's holy!”

Eye peek spotted the fuzzy haloed man tower followed by a shorter fuzzy form with blonde hair. Oh.

He knew that voice even if the detective looked like a big, blobby... blob. Granted, that's what everyone looked like until they were within about two feet of him and that was when he was wearing his glasses.

“What's up, Lassie?” He leaned to smile at the woman next to the tall fuzz. “Hi, Jules.”

He might not see her smile back but that was one thing he could hear perfectly in her reply. “Hi, Shawn.”

His smile drifted towards a leer.

Gus, clearing his throat much like a cat horking on belly fur, decided the flirtation portion of the day was over with and forced them back to the world of pressed suits and oiled penny whistles.

“Something we can help you with?”

Fuzzy Jules became less fuzzy Jules when she pushed around Lassie to bring both herself, and her purpose, into focus. Shawn liked when he could multipurpose words.

Way better though? He could see her face.

“Vick asked us to stop by and pick you up. There's a case she thought... Well, she was wondering if...”

Shawn folded his hands. She was cute when she was flustered. And that soft focus halo his crapped out vision produced really sold the Vivien Leigh, vaseline across a camera lens, view of her sweet sweet features.

“Oh for crying out...” Not remotely flustered, though cute in a baby hedgehog sorta way, Lassie also made himself unfuzzy and dared breach the five foot mark into the office.

“The chief has a pity case which means we get to play babysitter for a day. In or out, it's your choice but,” finger made a threatening point that drifted back and forth between the two younger, handsomer, men, “you are under my watch so you so much as bedazzle one step out of line and I'm locking you in my trunk...” words choked off and blue eyes snapped wide on two faces as Juliet gaped at her partner.

Shawn swallowed and smiled widely in return. “No can do, Lass, I have a note from my daddy that gets me out of all vehicular travel that doesn't involve a side car or a tiny goat pulling a wagon.”

The quickly assembled joke didn't erase the discomfort all around but it got a pass in general for that very reason. He filed that bitty detail about milking the shame heifer before the well ran dry, simultaneously patting himself on the back for his clever metaphor mixing, and decided to follow Gus's aborted lead by hauling Nelly by the hair back to the alter.

“So, what, somebody lose their collection of antique vaaaah-zes?”

Still strung out on his remorse, Lassiter lifted his eyebrows before lifting his eyes, shrugging as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the desk behind him. “Nah, some guy hung himself in his motel.”

Gus frowned. “The Chief wants to bring us in on a suicide?”

Lassiter tipped his head. “Like I say, it's a pity case.” Standing then, he tugged his jacket straight and headed towards the door. “Look, come or don't but CSU is waiting for us to show up so if you're tagging along then move your ass.”

Juliet gave Shawn another smile, the tight lipped kind that said everything from “I'm sorry my partner's an ass” to “that shirt makes your biceps look hot”, before following Lassiter towards the exit.

Granted, not quite the vitriol as his previous threatening invitation but Shawn only needed a moment to exchange a nod and hand clap with Gus before they both rose with a happy bounce and smooth upward glide respectively.

“Hey Lassie, bet I call murder before you do.”

Lassiter snorted, beating Shawn to the door in a single long stride – Shawn allowing the win rather than hustling for a shoulder war. His shoulder was exempt from wars for the next three months. Six, depending on how many pity dinners he could wring from his father.

“Not really a bet, Spencer. You'd call murder on a stolen cockatiel.”

Shawn grinned as he pulled the door shut behind him. “Winner buys Del Taco.”

Lassiter jammed on his sunglasses.

“You're on.”

Slipping into the back seat of the sedan, Shawn carefully pulled the belt across his lap – maneuvering the shoulder belt beneath his arm. “For the record, I like extra pico de gallo.”

No response from Lassiter. Not verbal anyhow. Shawn was impressed that the detective could offer that gesture while backing the vehicle out of of the lot.

Less hostile than her partner, Juliet turned in her seat. “We're glad to have you back, Shawn.”

Grin going from mocking to Cheshire cat, Shawn turned towards his own partner and nudged his arm.

“See that, Gus? Told you she liked me. Later? We're playing Spin the Bottle.”

He didn't miss the smudge of blush before Juliet managed to get turned around again. On the other side of the car, Lassiter muttered something obscene.

Sitting back, Shawn let the world outside the car fill his vision. His muddy, blurred, glorious vision.

Yeah. It was good to be back. It was damn good.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2862>


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